Lonely Men
by vigirl
Summary: “He had said and done enough to keep her for now. What more was there to want?” - G/S - Epilogue
1. Default Chapter

Title: **_Lonely Men_**

Author: Alison Nixon

Rating: PG-13

Category: Angst, Drama, UST/AST, WIP-Completed

Spoilers: References to nearly all episodes from Burden of Proof through Hunger Artist (i.e. through the end of season 2)

Summary:  "He had said and done enough to keep her for now.  What more was there to want?"  - G/S

Disclaimers: The usual. None of the characters are mine. They belong to Anthony Zuiker, Alliance-Atlantis, CBS, et al.  No infringement intended.

Feedback:  Definitely!  I'd love to know what you think.

Archival:  With permission.  Please email me at anixon72@hotmail.com

Notes:  Hmm…Well, this story started as a suggestion from Eolivet for me to write a post-Anatomy of A Lye fic.  The idea was to explain the notably (and newly) comfortable vibe between Grissom and Sara in that episode.  But, as I sat down to do that, I found that the story concept just…grew .  G  I guess I decided that I couldn't adequately explain the subtle changes in how G/S relate to each other in AaoL unless I went further back in time--to right after PNN.  I also think that the specific idea I had for how they get closer probably dictated that I start before AaoL.  Now, why did I take the story through HA?  Because I am a fool. G  Sigh. Just call it the mother of all post-eps. Or something like that.  Just to clarify, although I'm posting this a WIP, it is indeed a completed story.  Because the thing is so unbelievably long, I figured that it would be easier to digest in periodic chunks, rather than all at once.  My plan is to post subsequent chapters every two days until we get to the end.  So that's about all I can say…I hope you like it.  Final thoughts: a warm, sloppy thank you to Devanie for listening to my ramblings and nail-biting over the agonizingly long period it took to write this behemoth, and for giving me that awesome first read.   Thanks for helping me keep the faith, girl. ;-) 

****

**_******_**

Grissom crossed quickly over the threshold of his office, pushing back against the door until its lock tumbled into place.  The cluttered privacy of the room extended its usual welcome, but he made no move to sit.  He usually thought better on his feet, and right now he needed all the help he could get.  Who was he, after all, to tempt fate? The problem was not merely philosophical—surely the pressing of one's luck was best left to men far more adventurous than he.  Besides, what he said to her the other night had been fateful enough.  The memory brought something close to a smile to his lips.  No simple matter, talking to a woman about beauty.  Telling her she was beautiful would have been simple.  Telling her she had opened his eyes to the existence of beauty was…not.   He scarcely knew what face he had presented to her as he spoke the words.  The one thing he did know?  Of all the things he might have imagined saying to a woman he truly cared for, those four words were not among them.  That was Sara's effect.   

Intuitively, he knew that it was the right thing to say.  It had to be; it quieted her.   Still, the anticipation of her silence and the reality of it were two different things.  What was she thinking?  The ice could not say, but her eyes might.  He took a moment to compose his face and then turned his head towards her.  She sat utterly still, watching him with dark, wary eyes that stood out against her paler than usual skin.  Her lips never moved to question him, but her body used its own language, carrying queries in the pitch of her head, the angle of her torso, and the careful placement of her hands on her thighs, slim fingers outstretched.  He let himself absorb the sight for a brief second before he dragged his eyes away; she would have to find her own answers.  And, in the end, at some mysterious point between the moment her bewildered eyes met his, and their quiet talk of Zambonis, water and fire, she had.  So much so that later, when their shoulders touched ever so slightly as they watched the piled ice melt, she was as content around him as she had been in weeks.  

Yet, here he was now in this dim place, mere days later, hoping for even more.  It was absurd.  She had given him what he wanted; she was staying.  He should be grateful, rather than greedy.  Hadn't he learned by now that wanting more than he could have, more than he deserved, never brought him joy?  He had said and done enough to keep her for now.  What more was there to want? 

He wished he knew.

He drew a deep, restless breath as his head drifted slowly down toward his chest.  Even the mysterious knots and whorls in the hardwood beneath his feet seemed too much to contemplate.  What, exactly, could he bring himself to do?  Logically, he should take the next step.  Tonight was as good a night as any; they were both about to leave the lab.  It was the rational choice, and one that should come naturally to him, but still…the very idea of approaching her like some middle-aged Romeo was too mortifying for words.  How would he even open such a conversation?  He clenched his fists reflexively.  If the stakes had not been his own heart, he might have laughed at the quandary: to have loved a woman so long that dating seems redundant, but to also not know her well enough to do anything else.  

_I'll just find her, say that I'm heading out for dinner, and ask if she wants to join me.  I don't have to go down on bended knee; I just have to open my mouth and say a few ritualistic words.  How hard can that be for a grown man?_   The key, he tutored himself, was to focus on the reward.   How many times had he seen lab mice focus solely on the treat they could smell at the end of the maze, rather than on the existence of the maze itself?  Animals mate successfully because they don't question what drives them; in fact, some avoid questions so well that they manage to mate for life.   He knew that to be true.  He did.  But…animals don't have ugly memories and shadowy fears.   Which was why he also knew that it would be easier to be one of them than to be the man he actually was.  

This last thought made him sigh and shut his eyes.  Perhaps the present moment was not the best time to catalog all of his failings.   He stood quietly, trying to settle his mind.   The large round clock over his desk ticked again and again; his body swayed gently in the disorienting darkness created by his closed lids.   When he finally opened his eyes, he felt his shoulders rise and fall in an eloquent, fluid movement.  It wasn't as if he really had a choice in the matter, anyway.   As he had read long ago,  _"There's too much beauty upon this earth / for lonely men to bear."_   And he was perhaps the loneliest man of all.  

He turned and opened the door.  He nearly lost his balance after the first few teetering steps, but he did not stop.  Where Sara was concerned, moments of clarity did not come as often as he would have liked.

*********

"Hey."

Surprised, Sara looked up from the paperwork fanned out in front of her on the break room table.  

"Hey Greg," she smiled briefly.  Her eyes immediately returned to the forms she held in place with her slim fingers.

He came closer, bouncing across the floor on the balls of his feet. 

"So, did you hear that the sports doc is pleading temporary mental defect?  It must be the 'she blinded me with her bodacious bod' defense," he snickered.   "What a wimp.  A blind man could have told him that Amazon hockey chick didn't want him.  I sure wouldn't be going to jail over _her_."

Sara continued to write.  "You wouldn't, huh? I thought you were all into that sport-and-sex thing.  I'd imagine Jane Gallagher is right up your alley."  She spoke distantly, not bothering to look up. "I mean, she's probably some kind of gold medallist in the Sex-a-lympics, Greg.  As I'm sure you recall, the vic nearly croaked the last time they were together.  She must be good." 

Greg's eyes lit up.  Lucky for Sara, he had a new theory.  He took a deep breath; maybe this one would grab her. 

"Well, as you may or may not know, the French word for orgasm, _le petit morte,_ does mean 'the little death.'  Soooo, I think I got it wrong.  Sex really isn't a sport.  It's actually a masochistic, near-death ritual…a kind of sweaty, slippery sensual combat.  We call it 'making love,' but what we ought to call it is…_making war._"   He paused, waggling his brows.

"So then Sara, riddle me this: is your lover your enemy?  Or, is your enemy your lover?"  

When Sara's mouth fell open, Greg grinned like a man astounded at his ability to impress even himself.

"Who _are_ you, Masters and Johnson on acid?  Geez, Greg, you ought to write these little gems down somewhere.  

Forget _The Joy of Sex_.  It's _The War of Sex_."

"The war of _what_?"  Warrick strolled into the room, already shaking his head.  "Well, well.  Who needs professional help now, Sparky?" 

"Besides you, you mean?  Well, it seems that Greggo here will be joining you and Nick in that therapy session from hell."

Warrick eyed the lab tech unenthusiastically.  "Three's a crowd, man.  You might want to reconsider the sex thing."

"HEL-LO Warrick, private conversation!"  Crossing his forearms, Greg made a big X in the taller man's face.

"Sounds more like a sexual harassment conversation, if you ask me.  You better not let Grissom hear you talking this crap."

Greg flinched, but tried to play it off.

"Oh, yeah?  And what's he going to do about it?"  

Sara leaned back in her chair and favored him with a slow smile.  

"My, aren't we suddenly the brave boy?"

Greg snapped his mouth shut.  Stupid Warrick, he cursed silently.   He just had to bring up Mr. Wonderful.   

"I thought you all would have gone home by now."  

The others turned to the door, near which Grissom had suddenly materialized, looking vaguely annoyed.  In truth, he _was_ annoyed.  If the others didn't leave soon, he would have to find some pretext for getting Sara alone.  Given that he had not thought that far ahead, the prospect was disturbing.

"As a matter of fact, we were just leaving.  So Sara, you coming?" 

Greg immediately felt Grissom's eyes fasten onto his face.  The effort made him queasy, but he refused to acknowledge the older man's stare.  No way was he walking away with that pitiful "brave boy" lingering in the air.

"Uh…coming where?" 

Sara spoke hesitantly, wondering if she'd forgotten something.  Her smile dimmed considerably as she forced herself to turn her attention from the man in the doorway back to Greg.   What was the boy babbling about now?

"Oh, you remember…Love is Here?"  

That got her attention, Greg crowed.  Of course, it got Mr. Wonderful's too, but that was just an unfortunate side effect.

"You were singing it the other day, and I mentioned that Starsailor's playing at the Double Down Saloon tonight.  I asked you if you wanted to come.   You said yeah."  The rest of his little gamble came out in a rush. "Well, you know, if your shift ended on time and you weren't too bogged down, or too tired, or something…"

Figuring that the cute deer in the headlights look creeping across her face had to be a good sign, he played his last card.

"So, since it looks like you're all done here and Grissom is practically telling you to go home, why don't we…grab some dinner at that place you like on the Strip, and then head over?" 

"Oh, uh… thanks Greg, for the thought.   But I…I just have all this paperwork to do.  You know, the kind that really can't wait." 

She grabbed a lifeline.

"But hey, maybe you could go with Nick. He likes Starsailor, too."  

 "What is that, 'love is here'?"  Grissom interrupted, frowning.

"Man, Grissom, she's only been singing that dopey song around here for at least a week.  Where have you been?"

Warrick noted the nasty look Sara sent his way; apparently she didn't appreciate the "dopey" crack.  He had thrown it in just to tweak her, but he was too puzzled by his boss at the moment to focus on teasing her further.  The man couldn't be that oblivious, could he?  Warrick rubbed his chin, thinking.   Of course, Gris and Sara had been going through some weird thing lately.  First he seemed to act weird around her, then she went out with Hank and he barely looked at her the rest of the night, then she filed that leave of absence, then she withdrew it.  Warrick smiled and shook his head.  Who knew what went on in the hearts of geeks?  Something real scary, he'd bet.  He tried not to laugh, but the low sound slipped out anyway.   

Grissom's expression darkened.   _So now Warrick is laughing at me?  I just came in here to ask a girl out.  What's he doing here, besides busting my chops?  And what's Greg doing here, besides getting in my damn way?  _It was strange, though…he didn't remember hearing Sara singing lately.  It was hard to believe he had missed it, given that he had spent most of the previous week hovering as close to her as he could.  How could he not have heard her humming things under her breath?  Filing the thought away for later, he glanced over at Warrick. 

"I've been right here, Warrick.  I'm sure I heard Sara singing something or other, though I wouldn't have recognized it."  His eyes flickered over in Sara's direction.   "But naturally you would, having been suckled at the breast of MTV like Greg here."

  
Her mouth twitched. "Now there's an image." 

"Oh, please.  And _that's_ not sexual harassment?"  

"_Excuse me?_"  Grissom's head swiveled towards Greg so quickly that had possessed the antennae of some of his precious bugs, they would have whipped around and slapped him in the face.   

"Aww no, man, you didn't."  

Warrick choked back his guffaws.  For a smart boy, Sanders sure was stupid.  Nah, he snorted, make that felony stupid.  Where's Brass when you need him?  And damn, where's Nick?  This is going to be good.

"Do you care to elaborate on that remark, _Greggo_?"

The lab tech took a moment to reconsider.  The waters were looking rather treacherous, but what was life without risk?

"Well…yeah…well, it so happens that Sara and I were having a private conversation, an intellectual discussion actually, about sex as a metaphor for _thanatos_, you know, the death concept that comes from the Greek god of the same name."  He held up a chemical-stained finger.  "Not to be mistaken for Hades, the God of the Dead, of course."   That point clarified for his unwilling audience, he continued, "Then Warrick came in and took it upon himself to start preaching to me about sexual harassment.  A subject totally irrelevant to that private conversation, I might add.  Next thing I know, you show up and start talking about people being suckled at various kinds of breasts.  I mean, Sara _wanted_ to talk to me, but you just forced that little image on us.  And hey, maybe _that_ offended me_--_"

Greg jumped back as Grissom's right hand sliced through the air between them before he slammed it on the table.

"_Stop_.  Just stop right there, right now.  First, spare me your Cliff Notes guide to Greek mythology, Greg."  

His voice became sharp.  "Second, what the hell are you doing talking about sex, metaphorical or otherwise, with my CSI?"

"Hey, that's between Sara and me, man…."

Grissom took a step towards him.  Sara stood up quickly to block his path, holding out her small hands.

"Whoa, whoa.  Everybody relax, OK?  _Relax_."

She waited until Grissom turned to look at her. 

"No, it was definitely not a topic that I would have chosen myself, but he wasn't harassing me, Grissom.  It was harmless, all right?  Asinine, but harmless."

She offered him a pretty smile.

"I'm a big girl."

Who shouldn't be talking to this puppy about anything, far less sex, he shouted inwardly.  What did you think I meant by "Say goodbye to Greg?"  Exhaling slowly, he made sure he had control of his voice before he spoke again.

"My mistake."   A_nd my cue to get the hell out of here.  Serves me right.  Nothing related to her is ever simple._

"I just remembered. I was on my way out when I walked into … this."  

He stared at her coldly, then turned on his heel and left.

*********

Sara tossed her Biro on the table and stretched her long arms over her head.  She had finally checked the last box on the last form.  Getting through the stack had taken longer than she expected, but the happy prospect of not having to deal with paperwork the next day still made it worthwhile.  Of course, she reflected, I would have been done much faster if I hadn't been thinking about what the hell happened in here earlier.  Grissom had actually seemed angry.  But what was the problem?  Yeah, Greg made an ass of himself, but that was typical.  Sara was sure that most of the ridiculous things he said were mainly for shock value, anyway.  The real mystery was why he chose to share so much of that nuttiness with her.  He had plenty of other friends, male friends, who might find his bizarre sexual theories far more amusing than she did.  And if he thought he was flirting with her, he needed to think again.

Still, none of this really explained Grissom's reaction.   She frowned as she remembered the look on his face when he said it was his "mistake."  What was that?  First he acts cranky, then he goes right back to being Mr. Enigmatic.  _Did I imagine that beauty remark a few days ago?  _She was pretty sure that cold air increases mental alertness.  Maybe the cap warmed up my brain too much, she thought wryly.  _Note to self:  ensure the equalization of head temperature under cap with air temperature of crime scene in advance of extravagant compliments._   She smiled at her own silliness; Grissom would have been amused.  Well, he would, if they were together right now.  The smile faded from her face.   _He can talk about beauty all he wants; I'm still sitting here by myself_.   Dropping her chin into her palm, she sighed deeply.   There was no point in hanging around here, in any case.   She pushed herself back from the table and stood.   Moving with her usual swiftness, in three minutes she had retrieved her coat and bag from her locker, dropped the paperwork in the appropriate tray, and swung through the front door.  Two minutes later, she had tucked herself into her car and turned out of the lot onto North Trop Boulevard.   She stared straight ahead for a time, her mouth set.  She blinked once, then twice.  Reveries had never been her style.  Before she could reconsider the impulse, she unclipped her cell phone from her belt and checked its programmed list.  She hit the keys until she came to the right number and raised the phone to her ear.

*********

tbc…


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Disclaimers, header in Chapter One

Notes:  Thanks very much for the reviews, and taking the time to let me know what you think! ;-)  And now, Ch. 2…

********

As he leaned forward against the window frame, Grissom contemplated the large backlit square of the city that was visible from his living room.  He hadn't bought this place for the view, but it never failed to surprise him when he took the time to notice.  Vegas was such a strange place to him, even after all these years.   Nighttime flash and daytime glitter laid flat in a ring of red mountains.  Not at all like the place where he grew up.  In California, though Sierras run like a knobby spine all the way down the eastern border of the state, to the west lies nothing but boundless sea and sky.  Vegas's vistas were utterly dissimilar but they held other, more unique charms.   Charms he could easily savor by merely driving to the outskirts of the city, about thirty minutes beyond the last of the lights and subdivisions.  Out there the desert reasserts itself, sprawling brazenly farther than the eye can see, past the mountains, past everything.   The best came after sundown, when even on clear, starry nights the profound darkness of that vast expanse overwhelmed his ability to see, hear, or feel…anything.  He had learned that if he stood out there long enough, the darkness would quietly it all.  Lose yourself, hide yourself; it amounted to the same thing.  Privacy.

A paradox, of course--privacy and openness embedded in a landscape.  But that was part of what he loved about the desert: the contradiction in terms.   He wished, not for the first time, that he could say the same of the other contradiction in his life.  The undignified fiasco at the lab told that story all too well, he supposed.  Consider it, he commanded himself.  In the thirty minutes that elapsed between the soul searching he had done in his office and his hasty retreat from the break room, his emotions had run riot: desire, fear, and jealousy, even anger.  In thirty minutes.  And all of that…messiness…flooded in because he couldn't control his feelings for her.   Despite his best efforts, he simply couldn't do it.  How could that much upheaval be reasonable?  How could it be bearable, for a man like him?  

Grissom turned from the city lights and lowered himself heavily onto his couch.  For the first time he could recall, he was exhausted by his own life.  When the phone rang, he let it disturb the quiet house for nearly four rings before he reached for it.

*********

"Hello?"

"Hey."  Her throat was suddenly dry.  "It's me."

"Sara?"

"Yeah," she replied brightly, ignoring the drumming of her nerves.  "What other gravelly-voiced woman would it be?" 

The silence lasted just long enough for her lower lip to find its way between her teeth. 

"I wouldn't call it gravelly."

She tried again.  "No? What would you call it?"

He stared straight ahead, willing the first answer that came to mind to fade away.

"Unexpected.  Is there something wrong?"

"No, I…does there need to be?"

More silence.  She felt a flush begin its hot creep up her neck.  

"No, no, of course not.  I'm just…"

_Making this as painful as possible.  Is that the best you can do?  _She bit her tongue, hard.  The last thing she wanted to do was argue.  Somehow, she managed to plaster a smile on her face.  

"So.  What were you doing before I called?"

His eyes drifted back to the window.

"I was just…reading."

"Reading what?"

He scanned his bookshelves quickly before spotting that day's paper, which lay untouched on the coffee table.  

"Just the paper."

She frowned as she considered what she had to work with.  

"OK, that will have to do.  Open it up to the comics, and read something from Dear Abby."

"What?"

"You heard me.  It's towards the back of the paper."  Her tone was grim.  "I feel like I could use some old-fashioned agony advice right about now."

He started to smile, but wound up making a funny noise in the back of his throat that was just loud enough for Sara to hear.  It could have been a snort of disgust or a small laugh; she had no idea.  

"Are you in agony at the moment?"

"I'm in something," she muttered. 

"Didn't catch that.  What did you say?"

"Never mind.  Where's my Abby?"

He sighed.  "Just a second."

Grissom flipped through the paper until he saw the thumbnail-sized photo he was looking for.  There were three letters to choose from.  He could not have said why, but his eyes settled on the last one.

_"DEAR ABBY," _

_"I love my boyfriend, "Joe," with all my heart; however, we have a communication problem. Sometimes I feel he is dodging me or doesn't want to talk to me. Joe thinks our conversations always lead to an argument, so he tries to avoid talking. _

Grissom ignored the soft snicker at the other end of the line.

_"Joe recently moved six hours away, making it even harder to talk."_

 "Wait.  What?"

_"I understand he may be excited about living in a new town, but I feel I deserve a little more respect than I'm getting. I'd like to talk to Joe about this, but every time I call him he ignores my questions and practically hangs up on me.   Abby, how can I improve our communication? Signed, ALONE BY THE TELEPHONE."_

After silently previewing Abby's answer, Grissom cleared his throat with a strangled cough before continuing.

_"DEAR ALONE: I hate to appear negative, but where do you get the idea that this man is your boyfriend?"_

It was harder to ignore her giggle.

_"It's time to move on, because Joe already has -- physically and emotionally."_

By now she was laughing openly.  "That woman needs help!"  

"Well, I admit that it doesn't look good, but…" 

"But _what_?" Sara asked, incredulous.  "It's over, dead, done.  How much more proof does she need?  Not only does this guy hang up when she calls, he has moved out of town to get away from her.  I don't mean to be harsh, but she needs to let it go."  She lifted her hand from the steering wheel and gestured emphatically.   "There's a simple formula for relationships.   Viability is inversely proportional to the decision of either party to put physical distance between them and the frequency of telephone hang-ups.  Dead simple equation, really, and one this poor lady needs to learn fast."  

"Well, it's not likely to be that simple, is it?  People do strange things."  His eyes narrowed, even as his voice took on a deceptive mildness.  "Like…leaving town to get away from someone. Or," he paused,  "to get back at them."  

"I don't see any evidence he's trying to get back at her," Sara shot back.  "The relationship is over, and he's moving on.  Where's your proof that he's the bad guy here?"

"I didn't say anything about bad guys, " he said coolly.  "All I'm saying is that he may be rather…mixed up."

"_Mixed up?_ The guy did what he thought he needed to do.  I'm not going to criticize him for that without trying to see things from his point of view."

"And what point of view is that?"

"That he had taken all he could take," she replied with a hint of anger. "Who knows what hell that woman put him through before he felt he had to leave."

"Hell?"  He repeated, skeptical.

"_Hell_."

Grissom looked down at his hands.   Whatever this feeling was, he didn't like it.   Guilt and regret were sensations he instinctively resisted, even when he was at fault, but they were hard to avoid here.  Ironically, as angry as she was, it was doubtful that she had guessed even half of the reasons he had treated her so poorly.  Like everyone else, she probably would not believe him capable of such purely reactive emotions, rebellions against her boldness, first with him that night as his pulse raced, and later, with someone else he would rather not think about right now.   

Sara had said nothing since that last curt word.  He waited, his anxiety building, but still she did not speak.  He shifted uneasily on the couch, wishing he could see her face.   Were he a different sort of man, of course, this would be the perfect time.  He could easily suggest that they meet somewhere to talk, and to start this conversation all over again.   And for one brave second, he considered it.  But as always, in the end he could only be his sort of man.   So he did what he could, which was simply to try to keep her on the line.

"So…where are you?  I can tell you're on your cell."

She let out a pent-up breath, and focused again on the road.  "I'm on my way home; I finished up at the lab a little while ago.  And…" She paused as she made the final turn onto her street.  "Here I am."

"Oh," he said, reluctantly.  "Well…I should say goodnight so you can get something to eat."

She pulled into a space near the entrance to her building, and turned off the engine. 

"No, it's okay," she said, sounding more like her normal self.  "I'm just having a liquid dinner.  As long as you can stand the occasional slurping sounds, I can keep talking." 

"Liquid…?  Whatever that means, it can't be healthy."  

"You know what they say about assuming, Grissom," she drawled.  "It's a fresh fruit shake—perfectly healthy.   By the time I get home, I've usually lost my appetite.  Well, either that, or I've lost the desire to do anything creative about the appetite I do have.  Fortunately, however, I own a very good, very expensive blender that takes care of both problems.   No reheating in the oven, no microwave, no digging for change for the delivery guy who now knows me on a first name basis."  She grinned triumphantly.  "Conservation of energy at its finest."

"Is it that hard to make some real food?  Good grief."

"You have no idea, Charlie Brown."

He smiled a little. _Peanuts_ was becoming something of a theme for them.  In this instance, thankfully, it signaled the return to safer topics of conversation.  

"What you need is a strategy.  You do one major grocery excursion per week.  You pick one day, probably the same day you do the shopping, and cook several things at once.  Then you just pack them away in the freezer, in Ziploc bags or even in those Tupperware dishes with the different food compartments, so you can account for the major food groups."  He swiveled his head toward the open kitchen area to his left.   "I like to use jars myself—excellent flavor preservation. They come in handy for specimens, too, so you get the recycling benefit.  But that's up to you, of course.   Whichever way you go, the point is that you'll have a complete meal waiting for you every night."  He nodded with satisfaction.   "It's simple really.  You just scope out a method and stick to it."

By this time, Sara had made it past the building's glass doors.  She jogged up the stairs to the third floor; the elevator always seemed to take too damn long.  She was in the middle of nudging her door open with her foot when she stopped short.

"Grissom.  Are you insane?   I don't want a method.  I don't want a strategy.  It's _food_, not in vitro fertilization.  If I have to plan for it that far in advance, I don't want it," she chuffed.  "No way am I packing and sorting my food like some paranoid squirrel."

"_Packing and sorting…_You call me, and somehow I end up the rodent.  What's wrong with this picture?"

She grinned, enjoying the vision of the exact expression she was sure he had on his face at that moment.   He would be tilting his head to the left right about …now…and working his face into the half-grimace he seemed to reserve for her more colorful comments.  

"Well, if I have to be a squirrel, let me offer you a word of advice.  Nevada winters are tougher than they seem, and when that cold desert gets going it will bite into your thin hide a lot worse than mine.   Now when it does, please don't come scrambling over to my den for any of my carefully stocked provisions.  The Lord helps those who help themselves, which means I don't have to."

She clucked her tongue in mid-cackle.  "Not very Zen of you, Gris.  What happened to sharing the earth's bounty, which belongs to us all?" 

"You should have picked a more social animal than the squirrel if you wanted me to share."

"Squirrels are social," she protested laughingly. "You see them running after each other all the time, racing up and down trees…" 

He sighed.  "They're either fighting over nuts or chasing down a mate, Sara."

"Ah, I see.  No sharing allowed, then?"

"No. It's counter-instinctual for them."

"And for you, apparently."

His eyes shifted behind his lenses.  "Only where you're concerned."

The odd tone made her laugh, if a bit uncertainly.   "O-kay." 

"Besides, if you're going to call me a rodent, the least you could have done was to make it something a bit nobler," he explained.  "Like a prairie dog."

"Oh, is that where I went wrong?"

His smugness returned.  "But of course.  Prairie dogs are among the smartest and most social _Rodentia_.  They live in prairie dog towns; they build prairie dog homes.  They even have a recognizable family structure, with a papa prairie dog and a mama prairie dog and--" 

"Whoa, I get it, Marlin Perkins.  How many times were you going to say 'prairie dog'?"

Grissom shrugged.  "Hey, don't blame me if you choose poor animal metaphors.  You really should brush up on your flora and fauna."

"Heeeee."  

He laughed out loud. 

The sound, unexpected as it was, sent a crazy kind of warmth shooting through her chest.     _Finally_, she thought.  She dropped her bag on the counter and pulled open her refrigerator.  

"Well, keep that up and I may even call you again some day."

He frowned.  "What do you mean?  Do you have to go?"

Her smile widened at the hint of anxious displeasure in his voice. "No," she said innocently, as she poured her dinner into a tall clear glass and moved to the couch. 

Grissom's face cleared as he allowed himself to relax against his sofa.  He still didn't know what the hell they were talking about, but he didn't care.   It was enough just to hear her voice.  

********

tbc…


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Disclaimers, header in Chapter One

Notes:  Thanks for the comments, guys!  You're all way too kind…but I like it!  G   

********

_(A few days later…)_

She was laughing.  

"Admit it, you had no clue."

"I admit nothing.  It was only a matter of time before I figured it out.  You just anticipated my next move."

"You lie," she countered, her voice full of teasing deliberateness, "and you know it.  In fact, all things considered, it was a pitiful display.  You're lucky I spoke up when I did."

Grissom breathed noisily, as if the very force of his breath would refute the woman's claims.

"I'm thrilled to see that you have such a healthy ego, but really, Sara.  It's not like you went looking for chloroform in those tires.  You just stumbled on it in the test results--total dumb luck.  To hear you tell it, you laid hands on the rubber and it spoke to you."

"Well, it sure wasn't speaking to you."

He comforted himself with the thought that his eyes would have burned her to a crisp by now if she were standing in front of him.  As it was, he would have to settle for fiber-optic incineration.     

"At least I knew what pissing up a rope was."

"No Cracker Jack prize there," she replied, batting his comeback away with ease. "You are a guy."

That was…hard to refute.  He decided a minor distraction was in order.

"So, what did you think of Greg's first field trip?"  Her opinion on this point did interest him, perhaps more than it should.

"Well, I guess he did as well as could be expected.  Especially since he hasn't been trained for it, you know?  But he seemed pretty bummed by the time we got to the lab."  She settled deeper into the cushions of her couch.  "I felt bad for him."

Grissom had as well, and his curious question to Greg about whether he enjoyed his outing had been genuine.  There was a definite limit to his open-mindedness where Greg was concerned, though.   He knew quite well that the next time he turned his back, Sanders would be panting all over Sara again whether Grissom made nice with him or not.  The boy was just annoying that way.  "I'm sure he'll survive."

"I can't blame him for being freaked out.  That was a terrible scene."  She grew quiet, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular.  "So many bodies."

"Yeah."

She exhaled softly, and forced her head back against the cushions.  "I don't know what's worse: to have been seriously injured right away, which means that you don't remember the bus flipping over itself and crashing, or to have escaped with scrapes and bruises…which means that you were fully conscious the whole time.  Listening to all everyone's screams and the chaos…and then listening to your own."

She had spoken in a rhythmic undertone, her voice so husky it felt like a dream.  Later, he told himself that he had responded to that sound and its strangely vaporous intimacy, rather than to the actual question her words implied.  As he did so, he found himself mesmerized by the bright black and gold stain of the butterfly in the exact center of the display before him.

"You remember the scene this morning, when you and Warrick were up on the road and I was down with the clean up team?"  He paused, retracing his impressions.  "I was in the middle of telling those guys what parts of the bus we needed to move to the lab when out of nowhere, I noticed this woman standing off by herself.  She had her back to me and she seemed to be staring at the spot where the bodies were clustered together on the ground last night.  My first thought was that she was one of those tragedy junkies who insist on coming to the places where some poor soul has lost their life.  So I walked over and told her that she had to leave.  It took her a second to react; I almost thought she hadn't heard me.  But then she turned around.   I should have been able to tell from her body language and the way she held herself--her face was bruised and cut, and her arm was in a sling."

"It was obvious that she had been on the bus, but she said it anyway.  She looked lost and bewildered, and just undone, I guess.  And I…just…stood there watching her, and I thought, _why are you here?_  Even after I realized that I had seen her the night before when I first walked past the bodies—hunched over one of the black bags, crying over the head of some young man, even after remembering that terrible moment in her life because I had seen it for myself, I didn't think.  Not about the fact that she was upset and probably needed to talk, or that she might still be physically shaky from the crash and should be back in a hospital.   I didn't think at all; I just said the first thing that came to mind.  _"Why are you here?"_

Sara felt her face shape itself into a hesitant frown.  "What did she say?"

What touched his lips might have passed for a smile, if it had held any mirth.  "…Nothing.  She just looked at me for a long second like…like I was some machine who had come to life just to…refuse her."  

In the silence, the deep stillness of his house settled over him like low-lying fog.  He closed his eyes and rubbed them roughly.   Exhaustion could not be his excuse; there were things that she simply did not need to hear.  He knew that better than anyone.  Besides, the last thing he wanted was her pity.  It was a useless emotion—sometimes, it reflected well on the person who felt it, but rarely did it do so for the person receiving it.  Or, he reflected, the person demanding it by airing some ostentatious self-criticism aloud.  Most decent people felt a natural sympathy for anyone who would bare their soul in such a way; Sara was more than decent.  He pressed his fingertips in the hollows around his eyes, and gritted his teeth.  This was not the conversation he had hoped to have with her.

He started to change the subject, but then she spoke.

"Is that how you see yourself?"

"Is what how I see myself?"

"As a machine," she said softly.  "Some pre-programmed block of blankness.  Garbage in, garbage out.  Reduced to saying the first rote thing that comes to mind, no matter what the disaster."

It sounded much colder coming from her, and infinitely sadder.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do."

A jolting shiver passed through his body like a wave, rising all the way up to the roots of his hair.

"I was just using dramatic language to make a point."

Don't even try that with me, she warned silently.

"And what point is that, Grissom?"

He closed his eyes again, and ran his hand over his face.  

"That…traumatic events have a powerful effect on people.  That woman had been caught up in something terrible and she simply couldn't process it."  Plausible enough, he supposed.

"Impressive analysis. The first part more than the second, though."

He recognized the inflection; she wasn't quite done.

"I didn't mean it, you know."  She made the words and her voice as softly appealing as she could, knowing that was all he would have to go by. "I was hurt and upset, and I came in looking for you to say something to me that …you weren't prepared to say.  But I'm not in your head, or in your heart, and so I should never have said something so …total."  Softer still.  "I know you feel things." 

It never failed; she never failed.  There had been only one other person who had ever willingly taken on his problems and made them her own, and that had been scripted by blood.  It frightened him to see how easily Sara could do that too, especially when it was the last thing he deserved.

"Sara."

"Yes?"

"You never have to apologize to me."

"I know," she said, sounding very young to him.  "I just wanted to."

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face.   He drew a deep breath.  When the exhalation came, he visualized it pushing everything away but her.

"So, I will see you tomorrow?"

"Well, I'm a woman who loves her work, so yes," she smiled sweetly, "you will."

She heard a rustling of whispered breath that she decided was a tiny chuckle.  

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yes."

*******

The sound currently assaulting his ears was actually less deafening that he would have predicted.  Surprising, given that the bus chassis held a noisy 350 Hp engine.  Grissom didn't really know how long it would take before the expected reaction occurred, but knowing that was less important than confirming that the application of chloroform was the originating action.  Chloroform would destabilize the rubber, the tire would blow, the low-grade bolts would shear and cause the rod iron to fall, and finally, the driver would lose control of the wheel, overcorrect and compound the looming disaster.   That was theory, but this old fashioned experiment would be proof.  

As he shifted his weight forward onto the leg he had propped on top of a crate, he caught a glimpse of the gray felt case into which he had packed the chessboard lying near his foot and frowned.   Warrick.  Checkmate.  "Sara…she _needs_ me."  Grissom exhaled audibly, trying to drown the memory within the tunnel of sound created by the revving engine, but failing miserably.  What galled him most was the way Warrick had actually swaggered away afterward.  Though Grissom hated to admit it, the whole performance had been worthy of the younger man's coolness and suavity.  Two words that will never apply to me, the resident gray-haired lump in the room, Grissom noted wryly.  _Just a silly, throwaway line, nothing to worry about._   Sara would probably laugh if he ever brought it up…which was more than she would do if he kept making an ass of himself whenever she picked up the phone.   What a load of nonsense he had said to her.   Everything had been fine, she was giving him a hard time as usual, making him smile, and then…he just stepped right into it.  _She probably thinks I was feeling sorry for myself, or worse, that I have "issues."   _Just the impression I wanted to leave, too, he thought, shaking his head.  Just great.  

It wasn't until Grissom saw Nick turn slightly that he realized he had completely forgotten that the man was standing right beside him.   Grissom looked back, puzzled by not having heard anything himself, following the direction of Nick's eyes.  She was striding purposefully towards them, Catherine in tow, wearing something red.  An outfit he'd never seen before, or at least not as one complete look.  Afraid to be caught staring, he turned back to the bus.  Just morning after jitters, he told himself soothingly--except for the curious fact that nothing as simple as sex had taken place.  The phone thing was turning out to be rather like a Trojan horse.  He would never have said what he did if he could actually see her assessing him with those eyes, he was sure.  But he had not steeled himself adequately against her voice.  Its effect had caught him off guard, and made him linger on thoughts best kept to himself.  He should have just asked her on the damn date, apparently.  _But no, I had to start…talking._  He shook his head.   The rule still held: nothing related to Sara was ever simple.  

He felt a rustling in the air to his left.  Without turning around, he knew that she was there next to him; she could always be counted on to find her way to his side.  A strange burning sensation in his chest, tinged with both pleasure and pain, began to slowly radiate outward to the rest of his body.

 "Hey," she said, smiling, confident.  

He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it.  That voice.  He twisted around and caught her eyes with his.  He felt a fool, but happily so. 

"Hey."

Although they both would have denied it, they leaned a tad closer, as if the floor had shifted mysteriously beneath their feet of its own accord.  A slight loss of balance, he reassured himself hastily.  Nothing more.  Her smile deepened as his eyes wandered down from her mouth to the bare skin at the hollow of her neck, and finally to the V-shaped area exposed by her shirt and framed by the red collar points of her jacket.   Just then, he heard the motor kick into higher gear, whirring insistently with its loud metallic whine.  He turned back to watch, as did she.  It wouldn't be long now.  

"Cool."

*******

tbc…


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Disclaimer, header in Chapter One

Notes: Again, major warm fuzzies to each of you who has read, reviewed, etc.  Thanks for taking the time--you guys are pretty awesome.  ;-D  Sorry Ch. 3 was so short, but this one is a nicely sized chunk , I hope.  (And in case you're wondering, I finally figured out how many chapters the rest breaks into…three more to go…) 

******

Pure restlessness forced him to his feet again.  He had already walked the length of his house more times than he could count, but the jangling of his nerves was little improved.   Maybe he did think better on his feet, but he fretted better that way too.  Without even checking his watch, he knew that barely ten minutes had passed since the last time he called.  _Where was she?_  She had been calling him nearly every day recently, usually at the same hour; they had established a pattern.   That's why he was home now.  Why she was not was the mystery.   He had been playing mind games with himself for days, testing his resolve, weighing and discarding reasons why he should play it safe and let her do the calling.   The arguments for passivity were many: control, deniability, safety, habit.   They just didn't work so well when he wanted to hear her voice this badly.   Grissom rubbed the molded plastic of the cordless in his hand.  How could she not be home by now?  They'd wrapped up the bus case hours ago.  He had assumed he would see her at the lab when he returned from the arrest in Barstow, but she had left without him.  He sighed.  _She didn't leave "without you."   It's not like you were expecting to go home together._   She just left, that's all…before you could find out where she was going looking so good.  The suit, the hair…the lipstick.  He was pretty sure that the shade was new, some coppery color that glimmered when her lips moved.  He ran the back of his hand across his mouth.  _Where was she?_  

She could have gone out with Nick or Warrick, he supposed, but surely they would have invited him and Catherine to join them.  As far as he knew, Sara had not gone out with those guys by herself before, so there was no reason to think she'd start now--unless she "needed"  Warrick again.  Grissom rolled his eyes.  Well, at least he knew Greg wasn't in the picture; the boy was still hunched over his instruments as Grissom left the lab.   The pacing continued, each step more frustrated than the last.   With a distant look, he wandered through the living room and toward the kitchen island.  He noticed the half-eaten dinner still sitting on his kitchen counter, but it aroused no greater interest than it had an hour before.   The only thing that he could focus on, ironically, was the complex algorithm governing the way his bulk rolled to the outer edges of his feet as they struck the hardwood floor, which was a strange twist on the straight ahead, heel-to-toe stride that most men have.  His father's bowed legs condemned him to a rolling gait, but it had never been this bad before—he was constantly fighting to keep his balance of late.   Whatever was wrong, it wasn't something he had time to think through just then.   He had bigger problems.  

The bedroom was the only place left to go if he wanted to keep moving.  He had taken the first few steps toward the open doorway when a quick flash of panic gripped him_.  What if she's with him again?_  Maybe that's why she dressed up in the first place.  She had done the same thing for that damn first date—if that was indeed the first, he noted darkly.  She had worn red and done something to that curl at the bottom her hair…there had been new lipstick then, too…he contemplated the perfectly made bed directly in his line of sight, biting down hard on his lip.  _She wouldn't_.  After what he had said, she wouldn't still go out with that guy.  Or any guy, surely.  A prickling heat stung his skin and colored his face despite the coolness of the room.  He chided himself for harboring ridiculous suspicions and closed his eyes to shut out the image of her smiling and laughing with this man he had never seen, but still feared.  Sara would never do that to him again. Not now, when she knew how he felt. There was no need for her to look elsewhere.  She knew that, didn't she?  

But…what precisely did she know?  Nothing definite, nothing absolute about what he felt or what he wanted.  He'd waxed poetic with talk of beauty, but what did that mean when it came to making sure she was his?  _It meant I love you.  But who could know that except me?  _Four words when three would have done.  Four, when three would have secured her voice, and her face, and her lips… As he sank down onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped in defeat.  Crazy or not, he would have to call again.  He raised the phone from his lap, and quickly punched in her number.  One ring.  Two.  Three.  His thumb moved towards the release button, desperate to disconnect before her machine could record even the slightest proof of his futility.   

"Hello?" Her voice rose higher than usual on the second syllable. 

"Hi."  He tripped over his tongue.  "It's, it's me…I mean, Grissom."  

"Oh hey," she laughed, breathing hard.  "I just came through the door."  She exhaled happily.  "Glad I got in when I did.  I nearly missed you."

"Yeah," he said, his throat tight.  He looked down at his lap.  "So…you were out."

"Huh?" Distracted by the need to juggle various bags as she tried to cradle the phone between her ear and shoulder, she barely heard him.  God, didn't realize I bought so much stuff, she thought, slightly dismayed by the evidence of her own enthusiasm.  "Yeah.  I was, uh, shopping."

"Shopping?"  He didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"Hey!"  She protested lightly.  "I have shopped, on occasion.  Well…as a catalog junkie, maybe a little more than that.   I used to order everything that way, or online.  But I've decided on a new regime: from now on, I have to make at least three-quarters of my purchases in person.  Human contact."  She shook her head.  "I have no intention of ending up with some Greek god in the slam on my AOL buddy list."

His smiled.  "Are you sure?  I hear captivity tends to inspire eloquence."

"Yeah, well, they can inspire someone else."  Her bags fell unceremoniously to the floor as she straightened her neck out of the crimp that had held the phone in place on her shoulder.  She secured the instrument in one hand before turning to pull a can of soda out the fridge with the other.  "The Marks case was a word to the wise.  I refuse to end up like that," she said emphatically.

"But you couldn't.  That's not your life…grasping at affection from strangers, imagining things that aren't there."  

The second time, she shook her head hard enough to make her hair sway gently. 

"Well, I hope not.  I mean, I definitely don't go 'looking for love,' but maybe I am susceptible to…"  She hesitated, weighing her words.  "…assumptions."

"No, you're not."  He blinked.  "You're not that easy on yourself."

She considered that briefly, trying to decide what it meant.   "So, anyway," she shrugged,  "after that case, I came home and tossed my little catalog collection in the trash, along with the takeout boxes and all the menus.  That was the first step.  And then, I—"  Her lips closed just in time.  There was no need to go down that road, no need at all.  Maybe she could tell him someday, but not now.  Not when things were still so unclear.

"And then you what?"  

She pushed idly at one of the shopping bags with her foot.  "And then…I…took stock of my life and how I was living it, I guess.  I was sitting at home every night because I chose to, not because I _had_ to.   It was like I had turned all the locks to keep myself in, rather than to keep anyone else out.  So I decided to…open them."

"Meaning…"  His voice was wary.  If she had stopped sitting at home alone, it begged a question, one that he was not at all sure he wanted answered if it meant what he thought it did.   He felt his fingers begin a nervous drumming against his thigh.

She glided over the truth of the phone call, the night at the diner, and everything that had followed since.  The date had meant something, she figured, but not the rest.   She had never even let the man touch her, not once.  It hadn't occurred to her as a possibility, even. 

"I just started… doing more.  Nick said I should get out more and he was right.  So I started going out to eat, and to…movies."  She rushed ahead.  "I even looked into about taking some random class like…I don't know…ceramics or drawing.  It was too late to register, but I've got the schedule for next time."  She shrugged.  "I've always liked doing stuff with my hands, anyway."  

Her eyes drifted back to the various sacks on her floor, some glossy and multicolored, others rough and brown.  "And, I did this—shopping. Just making more of an effort in general to get out," she finished softly.

Grissom stilled the minuet his fingers were playing against his leg, and pulled himself to his feet.  Pacing, again.  As he made his way from the bedroom back towards the kitchen, the partially consumed dinner on his counter stared back at him in a bizarre kaleidoscope of color.  Creamy orange, grass green, brick red…translated, salmon, green beans, and red potatoes—poached, sautéed, it hardly mattered.   It was a dinner he had made so many times that it could hold no new tastes or sensations, no matter the preparation, or the spice.  Routine, but joyless.

"I can understand that."

_Can  you really? _ Sara frowned.

When she neither accepted nor denied that possibility, he cast about for something to move them away from the edge. 

"Well, given the new regime, what did you buy today?"

"Well," she began cautiously, almost as if she were about to reveal how she had pulled off some fantastic sleight of hand,  "I bought a good many things, in fact."  She bent forward at the waist and began rifling through the bags. "Let's see…there's the shoes.  Girly, totally impractical, but they looked great on my feet and they're actually comfortable.  Oh, then there's the wreath for the bathroom…"

"Why would anyone want a wreath in their bathroom?"  He asked skeptically.  

Sara smirked at his naiveté.  "Shows how little you know.  It's good feng shui to have vegetation in the bathroom.  And my plant wouldn't survive in there; you know how orchids are.  So, I got a wreath made of bay leaves.  It looks great, green and bushy, but still orderly.  And it smells _amazing_."

"Yeah," he conceded, "I imagine it would. Dried bay leaves are much more pungent than fresh ones.  Diffusing that aroma in a small room could be appealing."  

"Exactly." 

"So is that everything?"

"Nooo…I haven't mentioned the best purchase of all.  You know how the best finds are the one you never went out looking for in the first place?  Well…"

"Yeah?"

Sara reached into the bag nearest her right foot; the tissue paper fell away as she grabbed a handful of silk.

"A dress.  Not just any dress, mind you…a great dress. Silk, thin strap, with a sort of V-shaped draping across the chest…it's hard to describe, but…"  By this time, she had pulled the wispy item entirely out of the bag and was holding it aloft in one hand.  

Sara, in a dress.  Intriguing.  "What color is it?"

"Oh, red. Deep red."

He nodded.  "That sounds right. Red's your color. "

She grinned.  "Is it now?  You do realize that 1 in every 12 men in the world is red-green colorblind.  How can I trust your judgment?"

"First principles, Sara.  If I were colorblind, I wouldn't even been able to perceive the color red well enough to say whether it flattered you or not.  Like with the red suit you wore today.  I would have thought it was a green suit if I were--"

"Protanomalous," she finished for him, smiling.  "Someone with a red-weak color deficiency.  OK, so you're not colorblind.  Glad to hear it.  I get called a fashion 'don't' often enough as it is; the last thing I need is a recommendation from you that makes that worse."

"A fashion…" He squinted as the rest of the phrase escaped him.  "Who calls you that?"

"Guess," she quipped. 

He pondered for a moment, frowning.  "First of all, your wardrobe is none of Catherine's concern.  And second," he continued, his tone becoming lighter, "while I can recommend the color, I've never seen the dress, so I can't comment on that specifically.  I would be speaking in…hypotheticals." 

"Then…make it concrete."  After the barest hesitation, she went a step further.  "Time and place."

"I'm sorry?"

She took her time, toying with the words.  "Name the time and the place.  Me. You.  The hypothetically flattering dress.   Concrete enough for you?"

As it often did at such times, the moist tip of his tongue flashed between his lips.   _How the hell…?   What am I supposed to say?_  

"Sara."

"Yes?" 

The ragged sigh gave him away.  "I don't think that…"

She closed her eyes tightly.  _Of course you don't._

"Never mind."

"I …"

She held up a hand he could not see.  "Forget it.  I swore I wasn't going to do this, so…just forget it."

"What does that mean?"

Her eyes roamed the room, seeking out the corners where it was easy to hide.   "I promised myself that I was not going to be the one to ask.  Call it female pride, call it stubbornness—whatever—either way, you will have to ask me."  Her voice softened.  "I'm not trying to be difficult…and I'm not some pre-feminist throwback who would never dream of asking a man out."  She pivoted sharply, her feet moving automatically to measure the distance from her living room to her bedroom, and back again, before coming to an uncertain stop near her sofa.  "But I just can't do it this time, all right?  That's…something that I need you to do.  I can't really explain it, I'm sorry, but that's how I feel."

"You don't have to explain," he said, so quietly she strained to hear him.  "I get it."

"Do you?"  

The quiet doubt in her voice brought him to his feet.  "Yeah, I do.  It's only fair."  

He resumed his pacing, so did she.  Both moved slowly through their respective spaces, heads down, watching their feet take them…wherever.  It was Sara who recovered first.  She attempted her trademark smile and straightened her shoulders.  There was always time to puzzle this out later; she just wanted to enjoy his company right now.  Heading back towards the refrigerator, she tugged on the handle.  "So.  What are we having tonight?  Did you eat already?" 

"Kind of," he admitted, chagrined.

"Grissom, I can't believe you.  How could you not wait for me?"  She put her hand on her hip.  "You really are a paranoid squirrel.  Gotta fatten up for winter, huh?"

"Shut up."

He loved her laugh.

******

Perhaps the most curious sensation came down to the undeniable pleasure of watching her eat.  Her hands were small and finely boned, and the highly polished silver threw off kaleidoscopic glints and gleams with each move she made to spear and cut.   The most mundane of human acts, he knew, but still full of precision and grace.  If he had not been watching her so closely, he might have missed it.  A morsel misjudged and sliced too large, slid awkwardly onto an unsuspecting tongue, and a funny grimace as it filled her cheeks close to capacity.  The utensils clattered onto the table as she hid her mouth behind one hand, trying not to laugh.  He kept staring even she blushed and struggled to tame her mouthful.  Rude, no doubt, but he could always blame it on the optical stimulus created by the candlelight flickering across her skin.   Rather he could, but he no longer had to.   The simplicity of that change brought a contented smile to his lips.

After refusing to look at him as she chewed, she finally did manage to get the food down.  She lowered her hand with an embarrassed half-smile.   "Cut me some slack, would you?  Why were you staring at me like that?"  

She started to reach into her lap for her napkin as she spoke, but he was too quick for her.  In a moment, he had wound his own napkin around his forefinger, raised his hand to her face, and pressed the cloth softly against the corner of her mouth.  When he did not stop there, and chose to skim his way across to the opposite corner, her eyes widened.  She began to part her lips, but before she could speak, he was at the center of her mouth to admonish her with a firm, yet gentle touch.   Her lips closed.   Lowering his eyes from hers, he concentrated on the precise translation of what he could feel of her through the white linen into words.  There was nothing to brush away from her mouth, and no reason to linger quite so long, as he well knew.  She knew nothing of this, however, and thus had no choice but to quietly submit to his ministrations.  He found himself wondering if being touched felt as remarkable as touching did in this specific instance, but when she moved to raise her hand to his, he was careful to pull away before she could make contact. 

"Did you…get it all?" 

He nodded.  She stared back at him, pupils dilated, eyes unfocused.  He offered his ghost of a smile; her eyes dropped down to the table.  Turning her head slightly away from him, she sent searching glances into every corner of the room as if she were noticing their surroundings for the first time.  When she spoke again, he could hear a slight breathlessness.  

"A bit of a trek from the city, but…really nice."  Her eyes swiveled back to his.  "Good choice."

As he watched her watching him, the last bit of tension he held inside finally melted away.  It had been a trial, trying to think of a suitable place to take her for this first time.  He had to avoid places where they were likely to be seen by someone they knew, but still impress her, somehow.   Then he remembered this place.  It happened to be a favorite of his, and although he had mentioned that fact to Catherine once, it was not a place she was likely to frequent.  She wasn't a big calamari fan.  Fortunately, Sara loved seafood and prodding her to say whether eating it posed a problem for her vegetarianism had been relatively easy.  The mental effort involved in trying to anticipate everything else that she might want on this night to be, by contrast, had nearly given him hives.   As usual, though, the actual experience turned out to be much less complicated than he had feared.  He always managed to forget how easy she was to be with.

"Glad you approve.  I've always liked this place."

"Classic, but unpretentious." 

"Exactly," he smiled.

He had already picked up his fork again when her sudden interest in the precise rearrangement of the two votive candles in the center of the table caught his attention.

"So, now that we're no longer dealing in hypotheticals," she said casually, "…what's your judgment?"   She raised one slender shoulder, then slowly let it fall; one of the thin straps of her dress grew slack and slipped just off her shoulder.  "With all the staring you've been doing, a girl starts to wonder."

He forced incomprehension onto his face. "To wonder what?"

Her subdued laugh melted into a sigh as she looked away.  "You're really going to make me ask, aren't you?"

"Well, I agreed that you wouldn't have to ask me out, but I never said anything about who would initiate compliments."  He eyed her shrewdly.  "Do you want me to tell you how you look?"

"No, I…."  She laid her right hand against the table firmly, palm first, even as her face reddened.  "Forget it.  Moving on…"  

He lowered his chin at her.  "You shouldn't give up so easily, Sara.  That's not like you."

"Maybe not," she agreed, raising her eyes from her plate.  "But making this big intellectual thing about needing to see the dress in order to say anything more than hypothetical about how it might look, and then once you do see it, you don't say a word all night… Now that…that is exactly like _you_."  She gave him a knowing look.  "You can't even deny it, can you?"

When he persisted in playing the Sphinx, she rewarded him with the vexed look he loved.  "No, I can't," he laughed.  

"You little shit."

"Poor baby," he mouthed teasingly.  She crossed her arms in front of her; which only made him laugh again.  "Poor pretty baby."

"All dressed up for a date with a fool," she muttered grimly.

Satisfied that he had gotten under her skin, he leaned forward to lay his hand on her arm, which still lay folded against her body.  "You know, the look you get on your face is priceless."  His laughter settled into an appreciative smile as he took in her every inch of her that he could see.  "I think you look …exactly as I imagined."

Doubt hovered in her eyes until he let his thumb begin an unhurried, rhythmic stroking of the back of her hand.  Her mouth softened.

"It's not like I'm some compliment hound, you know, " she pointed out, a bit sheepishly.

"I know.  You could be, though.  You certainly look far too good to be here with me."  

"You've got that right."  

The look he gave her sparked a light, happy laugh.  They stared at each other as he took a few moments to trace the raised veins he could feel on the back of her hand.  Finally, he brought his hand back to his side of the table.  

"Dessert?"

Despite the extreme warmth of the day, the night air had grown chilly by the time he held the restaurant's door open for her.  They walked to his car in easy silence, his hand on her elbow.  She weaved into him without warning.   He tightened his grip.  

"Oh! I'm sorry.  This surface is murder with these shoes."  They both looked down at her dainty-looking black sling backs.

He pursed his lips.  "Are those the new ones?"

"Yeah.  Nice heel, too, even if it's lower than what I would usually wear with a dress like this."  She grinned.  "Never say I don't do anything for you."

He urged her forward with his hand.  "Oh?  What favor are you doing me now?"

"I'm catering to your masculine ego by not wearing heels that would make me taller than you," she noted, her eyes twinkling.  "And since that's straight out of _Cosmo_, you should thank them too."

"You do _not_ read _Cosmo_."  He was adamant.

"Only for the sex tips." 

"Some of us don't need tips."

"That remains to be seen."

He sighed.  "All right, settle down over there.  You're getting a little frisky on that full stomach."

She just laughed.

By this time, they had arrived at the passenger door of his car.   She reached for the handle in anticipation of his keying it open with his automatic opener, but when she pulled, nothing happened.  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him.  His hands slipped back into his pockets.  

She looked puzzled.  "Something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly.  "I just thought you might want to put on your wrap before we go."  He held out a large scarf in fine black wool, which he had been carrying for her.

"Well, it's a little late for that, isn't it?  The car will be warm enough."  

He raised his hands.  "Hey, if you don't want it…"

She looked at him strangely, but shook her head.  "No, I want it, I want it."

Grissom unfolded the scarf and stretched it between his arms.  Deftly flipping one corner of the square of fabric over the other to form a triangle, he took a moment to ensure that it fell neatly, and then whipped it behind her so swiftly that his hands were smoothing the material over her shoulders before she realized what was happening.  As he moved his open palms from just below the base of her neck down to her elbows and back, they both smiled.  

"Better?" 

"Much."

He watched her steadily, and finally stepped closer.  She took a step back, but he moved forward an equal distance.  The dance continued until her back was against the car door.  

"Uh, sorry, but…I have fish breath, remember?" She laughed apologetically, and ducked her head.

"So do I…well, calamari breath, I suppose," he responded smoothly, eyeing her intently.  "You'll have to come up with something better than that."

She thought for a moment. "I bite?"

He sighed, and squeezed her shoulders.  "That would count as a turn on, not a turn off, Sara.  Try again."

Her smile sparkled.  "Okay, okay, just give me a second to regroup here.  Hmmm…other objections to--"

He caught her with her mouth open, in the middle of her train of thought.  They staggered slightly, arms entwined, trying to compensate for nearly losing their balance as he pressed her body firmly against his.   Who could have guessed that her lips were so soft?  The moment, visceral and intense, was sweeter than he had ever imagined; so sweet as to be virtually perfect…or at least it would have been, without the noise.  He tried to ignore it at first, choosing to focus on sliding his fingers in and out of the hollow of her spine as he ran one hand from her waist up to the base of her neck.   Still the sound persisted.   He groaned his hazy protest against her mouth, but he had no choice but to deal with the intrusion.  Keeping one arm around her, he used the other to fumble for his pager.   Tiny as the thing was, it was surprisingly difficult to keep his hold on Sara as he did so.  His hand felt clumsy and huge as its thick fingers scrabbled for the button that would end the aural offense.  _Why was this so hard?_  It was at the very moment that he noticed--Sara was shrinking in his grasp.  He moved to tighten his hold on her waist, but it was like clasping at air.  As the beeping grew louder and louder, she pulled her face away from his with a regretful smile and parted her lips to speak in the middle of a sudden halo of light…

He opened his eyes to brightness of the midday sun streaming rudely through his window.  The clock registered its alarm insistently, blinking its ugly numerals in his eyes like a warning.  One good smack silenced it.  He closed his eyes in the hopes of going back to where he had just been, but it was already too late.  He should have known.

*******

tbc…


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Disclaimer, header in Chapter One 

Notes: Back to reality…

******

"So, how was Nick doing when you left?"

Sara sighed.  "Not so good.  I mean, he was keeping himself pretty tightly controlled, but both Warrick and I could see that he was definitely still in shock."

"He didn't go back to his house to spend the night there, did he?" Grissom asked doubtfully.  "That's the last thing he needs, to try to sleep and recuperate in the same place where his life was invaded.  Every time he opened his eyes, he'd have to look up into the same ceiling where that guy was watching him for so long."

"Yeah, I know.  I couldn't stand that," she agreed, shaking her head.  "But he's actually spending the night at Warrick's.  I'm not sure how long he'll stay there, but hopefully we can help him get his place cleaned up quickly."  She took a sip of her drink and shifted the phone against her ear.  "He might even want to just find a new house entirely."  Her eyes flickered.  "I know I would." 

"You would?  Move, I mean?"

"Absolutely.  Once someone's violated your life like that, in your home…there's no way to feel safe there again.  Every time I turned a corner or heard a strange noise, I'd think the guy was back."

Grissom frowned.  "But isn't that letting him win? Letting him chase you out?"

Her voice turned hard.  "You don't understand, Grissom.  By the time you notice a stalker, he's already won.  Most victims don't even realize what's been happening to them until it's too late.  They get off on that kind of secret control until you make them angry, and then they just get off on torturing you emotionally, or worse.   People usually think of rapists as being the total control freaks, but stalkers are worse.  They would rather kill someone they can't have instead of  'just' sexually humiliating them, as if that's not disgusting enough."  She forced herself to stop, and took a breath.  "It's just so..."

Grissom had listened, but did not respond, which suited Sara just fine.  The last thing she wanted was to get him wondering how she knew so much about it.  

He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he tried to not to make the mistake he usually did when this issue came up between them.   Part of him did not want to know, he could hardly deny that.   As long as he didn't know, he could pretend that one day she would do what he asked and simply let things go.  But apparently, that was not meant to be.  He studied the worn leather spine of the book he had been reading before she called.  "Are you speaking from first hand experience?"

She felt a surge of something sharp somewhere in her gut.  "No. No, of course not."  

Her too-quick response was greeted by silence.  He sat back, prepared to wait her out.  After nearly two minutes passed with nothing but the sound of slight static on the line, the frustration spoke for her.  "What I mean is, no, it's not first hand experience."

"Someone you know?"

She exhaled roughly.  "Yeah…Look, I would really rather not…"  

His frown deepened, but he held his tongue.  "Okay."

She pushed herself back against the sofa, kneading the soft skin of her forehead as if it were dough instead of flesh.  Cowardly as it was, she just wasn't ready.  It was hard enough living with her own guilt; she didn't want to face his disappointment as well.  She squeezed her eyes shut, but to no avail.  The problem was not what she could see up ahead, but rather, what she always saw behind her, just over her shoulder.  

He would look at her differently, she was sure.  He might even blame her, just like Chris's parents had.  She could understand their reaction—she shared it.   All it would have taken was a simple "yes," and she might have saved her.  But she had been too angry, too eager to punish for her friend for having abandoned her to do the generous thing.   And by the time she allowed herself to regret what she had failed to do, Chris was dead.  Or rather, Sara reminded herself, she might as well have been.  

Grissom, caught in the silence she was forcing upon them both, focused on the only sensory input he had; he listened to her breathe.  He heard the tight, sharp intakes of air, as if something was constricting her chest.  If he was right, that tightness was also a prelude to tears, the very last thing he had hoped to elicit from her.   Obviously, she wasn't ready to share this was with him; less obviously, and for the first time since he had known her, he wished that she were.  Some of the harshest things she had ever said to him came out when he tried to avoid really listening, or really asking.  It was a measure of how much things had shifted between them that he now felt that he could listen to it, or at least that he could try.  

"Do you remember the Francis case?"  

She dug her fingertips on one hand into her cheeks before dragging them up past her eyes.   "Of course.  How could I forget?"

"What made it memorable for you?"

Her fingers halted their punishing progress across her face; she almost smiled.  _Meeting you_.  It should have been the case or the victim, but if she was honest, it was him.  She shook her head, knowing she needed another answer.  "The fact that it came down to investigating the coroner's office in San Fran, as much as the suspect himself."

He nodded.  "That was unusual, yes. But what I remember most is how straight you were.  You listened to the evidence, not the pressure to catch a guy, any guy.   Peters was an underhanded liar, but he was still your boss. If you hadn't made the decision to tell me your suspicions and bring me your proof, I would have never gotten to the truth that he and the others were trying so hard to hide.  And an innocent man would have ended up on death row."

She frowned slightly.  Why was he talking about this now?  They had discussed the case that brought them together only rarely over the years.  Their friendship was surely forged because of it, as was her transfer to San Fran's CSI division after the retaliation and rumormongering by her "colleagues" in the coroner's office took their toll.   Despite its significance, though, the subject of how either of them had chosen to trust the other on such short acquaintance never really came up.   It simply was there, and neither of them questioned it.   The questions came later, when the case was over and it was time for him to return to Vegas before she could decide what to say to him.   The situation was awkward and she had no idea what he felt about her, but she was not a woman used to letting things lie.  So she made up her mind to do what she could.  He probably rationalized her consistent presence as coincidence or mere professional interest, but she had made it her business to find out where he was scheduled to speak over the years.  Admitting to herself why she did so still made her uncomfortable, but if she hadn't acted as she had, would she be here now?  Would they be here now?  Her head fall back against the cushions and she ran her fingers over her lips, caught up in her memories.  Like she used to tell herself back then, it was all about points of contact, and a strange, stubborn sort of faith.    

"Well, I'm glad you see it that way," she said finally, when she realized how long she had been silent.   "But you would have seen through the lies eventually."

"No," he overruled her firmly, "I don't think I would.  It takes a rare person to risk siding with an outsider like me, someone brought in just to consult on a case and who won't have to stay behind to catch the hell for it.  You stood _against_ the people you worked with every day because you listened to the evidence and your conscience first.  And because you let yourself trust me."  He paused.  "I really respect that about you, Sara.  I always have.  And it's why I trust you the way I do."

"Is it?"  Her words were faint.  His, for all their loveliness, only made her feel worse.  He knew that version of who she could be, but it was not the only one.

"Yes."  His face softened into a smile.  "Yes."

Her shoulders sagged.  "Thanks."

"So," he continued smoothly, satisfied that he had distracted her from whatever was bothering her, "any thoughts about what Nick might need from us? You know I'm no good at that sort of thing."

She dug deep and drove the dullness out of her voice.  "Oh, yeah, definitely one of your managerial weaknesses, boss."

"At least I can always count on you to point these things out, grasshopper."  This echo of their usual banter cheered him unreasonably.

The smile was shaky, but it still counted for something, she figured.  "Never say I don't do anything for you, okay?"

"Okay."

******

Grissom's eyes swept the floor, roving distractedly from one precisely cut linoleum square to the next.  Little tricks like these often helped; sometimes, they were the only way to deal with the worst of it until he could get away from the lab.  Death, violent death, was almost always pointless and petty, but this one…his mouth tightened.  A harmless old woman, a ruinous child—one who killed instinctively, proudly even, before crying for her mommy.  A child with two of the coldest eyes he had ever seen.  Such was the product of a mother's love.  Like so many of his colleagues, Grissom could attest to the way parental neglect warped young minds.  The frightening thing here, though, was that this child wasn't neglected at all; she had instead been given too much.  If anyone had been left to fend for herself, it was that sad old woman.  

"This must be some kind of record.  I literally haven't seen you all day."

Startled, he looked up to find Sara blocking his path.  "How are you?" she asked, her eyes bright.

He looked away quickly.  "Fine. Tough case."  Hoping to deflect any questions, he settled his features into familiar lines and forced himself to meet her eyes.  "I guess the husband is off the hook in your bombing?"

Sara wasn't fooled, but she also knew that he wouldn't talk here.  Later, when he was less on his guard, she would try again.  In the meantime, she tried to think of an innocuous answer to his question.  No doubt she had read far too much into it, but still, the case disturbed her_._  What could it mean to say 'I love you' when you could end up like the Tobins?  Nothing, she suspected.  Even those words could equal nothing more than a mutual delusion. 

As these thoughts drifted through her mind, she dropped her eyes into the middle distance somewhere over Grissom's shoulder.   He watched her, noting each expression as it floated across her face.  Her reaction seemed odd--as far as he could knew, her case had been fairly straightforward.  It didn't have any of the triggers that tended to set her off.  Maybe she was just tired.

"Sara? So, how did it go?"

She looked back at him in surprise. "Oh, it went fine.  It was a conspiracy among the wife, her father, and her lover.  They were setting up the husband so that he wouldn't be able to claim any of the wife's inheritance when she divorced him."  Her eyes drifted away again.  "Pretty cold blooded, actually."

"Practically reptilian."  He seemed on the verge of continuing, but did not.  "I should go wrap up the paperwork before I get out of here."

Hiding her disappointment, she nodded briskly.  "Oh, sure, of course.  So should I."  She clasped her hands behind her back and rose slightly onto her toes.  "…I'll talk to you later?"

_As if I would refuse_.  "Yeah."

*******

"She killed her because of a cat?"  Sara lowered the spoonful of ice cream she had just raised to her mouth back into the pint she was holding, her voice strained in disbelief.   

"Well that, and because she's fundamentally evil," he said dryly.  

Her wide mouth tilted upward slightly.  Black humor seemed appropriate.  "Didn't know you believed in evil.  Kind of unscientific, isn't it?"

"Not at all," he said, taking her question seriously.  "It fits in with the theory of opposites, yin and yang, Newton's Third.  Evil as the equal and opposite reaction to good.  I think that's the intended relationship, actually.  Sort of a variation on the law of intended consequences."

"I guess I never thought of it quite like that," Sara frowned.  Her bare feet were perched on top of her coffee table, and crossed at the ankles.  She rubbed the top of one foot against the sole of the other.   It was a peculiar skin-on-skin sensation that she had always found satisfying, especially when she was trying to think.  "Following your logic, then, the husband in my case offered goodness to his wife, so she returned evil to him…" She shook her head.  "Either that poor guy is a modern-day Job, or we're missing something.   I mean, she lay beside him every night, plotting to ruin his life.  Why?  He wasn't cheating on her, or beating her, or anything like that…his only crime was having the bad grace to continue to love her even after she had stopped loving him.  Unbelievable."

"Well, they say it's thin line between love and hate, right?  Maybe he loved her too much.  Sometimes the more you love someone, the more you end up driving them away," he said quietly.

"Except that I don't think she even hated him, really," Sara argued, not liking the implications of what she had just heard.  "I think she just decided that he didn't matter anymore.  But I still don't see how can that be.  How does it happen?  Did she wake up one day and just slough him off like dead skin?"  She shuddered.  "That's what he gets for treating her better than most men treat their wives?  It's that totally instrumental view of his place in her life, as something she is free to use up and spit out that amazes me.  I understand it coming from a serial killer—that's their psychological hallmark.  But this was her _husband_."

Her brow creased deeply.  "Sometimes I can't understand how people ever get together.  She couldn't have ever really loved him, right?  And yet, she must have, or else why marry him?"

Grissom shrugged. "I guess she thought he was…what was it?  Husband material."  

Sara bit her lip.  "Hmm. Yeah.  And yet in both cases, the guy gets shafted.  Jane Gallagher was two-timing her husband material, and would have passed off that kid as his even if it wasn't, I'm sure, and Marcie Tobin married her husband material, only to later set him up for attempted murder.  So what does that term mean exactly?  A license to take advantage of someone?"  

"I don't know, Sara," he said slowly.  "Things just fall apart sometimes, I guess."  

"But that's just it.  They don't.  People let them fall apart, or they choose to take them apart." 

"Because as adults, people are mature enough for their behavior to be a matter of deliberate choice, is that what you mean?  That's generally true."  He paused.  "But what about when someone we generally think is too young to make choices decides to take things apart?"

Sara sighed.  "I think it pretty much sucks either way, Gris."

She settled back into her seat.  Over the past few weeks, she had begun to learn when to speak, and when to let the silence prompt him instead.  He generally knew what she wanted to know, anyway. 

"In a way," he said suddenly, "that wife didn't do anything so surprising, really."  He looked out toward the view from his bedroom window.   "People discard each other all the time."

"I don't think…"

"Sons discard mothers, friends and neighbors discard the crazy old lady next door…The old woman's son wouldn't even have come forward to claim her body if we hadn't dragged him in.  He said he was too broke to pay for her funeral, but …is that the reward she gets for caring about him all these years?"

Frowning again, Sara began to tug reflexively on the chunky silver ring on her left hand.  She worked back and forth between the middle and bottom joints as she spoke.  "She was his mother, it's her job to care about him and love him.  It was his job to take care of her when she couldn't take care of herself any longer, and from what you said before, he tried.  What's sad is that she seemed to have reached a point when she couldn't even appreciate his importance in her life…he meant less to her than her cats.  It's a case study in being too far gone into your own little world."

"So then, what was the point of her life?" He countered, challenging her.   "Here's a decent person who did the right things, or at least, the normal things…She got married, had a child, raised him, probably never cheated on her husband, was kind to her friends and neighbors, all of that.  She basically tried to live like a regular human being.  But she still ended up alone, with feral cats for company, shunned by nearly everyone.  If the mailman hadn't noticed the mail piling up in her box, she would have lain there for weeks as nothing more than a piece of meat for her little friends.  Things fell apart despite what she tried to do with her life, which begs the question…"  

His voice was flat.

"Why bother?  Why bother at all?"  

Sara stared at her hands.  If she had been using an old-fashioned telephone, she surely would have wrapped the corkscrew cord round one of her fingers, tighter and tighter with each loop, until the flesh it had caught turned red.  She didn't have that satisfying option, though, so she twisted her ring around and around until her skin protested the abuse.    

"But…one thing doesn't necessarily follow from the other, Grissom.  The way she lived in the past few years doesn't invalidate the rest of her life.   Neither does the nature of her death.  None of that means it wasn't worthwhile to do the 'normal' things…As badly off as she was by the end, I'm sure she still thought of that as the best part of her life--the people she had loved and cared for.   Even when she couldn't seem to recognize the value of those people anymore, they stood for something."

He said nothing. 

"That's the worst of it, at least to me.  Losing the ability to see people for who they really are."

Grissom looked back at his window, and blinked several times as if to clear his vision.  What was there to say?  He was already closer to that old woman than Sara would ever know.  She trusted him; she trusted that he was basically a decent person--unusual, yes, but essentially normal.  How could he dissuade her?  Improbably, he still held out hope that he wouldn't have to.   She was too lovely a creature to bear that burden.  

He found the words, somehow.  "I'm sure that's true."

"Of course it is," she said quickly, with confidence enough for them both.   "Beauty is always true, and--"  

"And," he continued, "poets never lie."

She was probably the bravest person he knew.   

******

"You sure do know how to light up a room."

Her lips twitched, but she kept her eyes focused on the luminescent display in front of them.  Grissom had asked for blood, and now they had it.  The victim must have been in Weston's car, even if they didn't know quite what happened from the time he was struck until he finally bled out.  Sara turned—Grissom's attention had shifted back to the case, and he was theorizing aloud about Weston's actions.   She heard the words with only part of her conscious mind, but that was all she needed--she could process evidence in her sleep.  On the other hand, opportunities to observe Grissom this closely didn't come nearly as often, even now.  So she listened, but really, she studied him.  He seemed very relaxed tonight, almost happy.   There could be any number of explanations for that but she would be lying if she said she didn't hope it had something to do with her, and whatever was taking shape between them.   It wasn't a relationship yet, that was true, but something was crystallizing nonetheless.  As she heard herself say something about checking for a DNA match, she watched the way he turned his body towards hers and gently lifted his hands in a gesture of agreement.  His face held only the hint of a smile, but his eyes were soft and satisfied.  She finished her thought, but he didn't look away.  Finally she maneuvered around him on her way to the door.   She did not have to look back to know that his eyes followed her out. 

"But where did it come from?" she asked a few moments later.  She was sure he was right about the blood drops bouncing up from the car floor to splash the underside of the seat; it made sense.  Still, she frowned as she considered her own question.  She looked up at Grissom, who was standing across from her, also frowning. He reached for the part of the seat carriage she was holding, trying to get a better look.  Rather than let him have it, she gripped it tightly, forcing him to step closer.  He bent his head and peered intently at the rust-colored specks.  She watched the light play off of the rims of his glasses.  Truthfully, these were among the moments she treasured most.  Being alone with him, nowhere in particular, puzzling over some question.  They could have been talking about the weather, or some other nonsense, and she would have been just as content.  Some people soothe you just by being themselves, and he was such a person for her.  He had been for a very long time, in fact.   The difference was that now, she did have to seek out his company; he offered it willingly.   

He was the one who approached her now when she walked through the lab, and always, almost always, with a strange light in his eyes.  Who knew if she managed to speak coherently; she was too busy memorizing that look.  More and more, it was their private time that floated through her mind when he spoke to her at work, bits and pieces of what he had said only to her, in a voice that rose and fell in patterns she had come to recognize.   It was like living two parallel lives in her mind, lives that bled into each other so very well.  She had no idea if it was the same for him, but the slow softening that she sensed whenever they were together gave her hope.   Surely, it wouldn't be too much longer now.  He would have to take the next step, wouldn't he?   The phone was lovely—she would be too embarrassed to ever tell him, but his voice was one of the things she treasured most—but he had to want to be with her.  Just to…actually see her, hold her, touch her…surely.  He must, by now.  She looked in his eyes again; he couldn't possibly know what she was thinking, she had said nothing except what pertained to the case.  But somehow, surely…

"So, Greg said you were processing an S-class?"  

******

tbc…


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Disclaimer, header in Chapter One

Notes:  Thanks for the feedback about Ch. 5!  And now…

******

Well, maybe he could just go…see if she was around.  She had yet to walk by his office, but she was invariably early for shift--she was probably around somewhere.  As he ran a hand over his tie to smooth it for the fourth time, Grissom sought reassurance in logic.   If Catherine's little appraisal was to be taken at face value, he looked fine.  But then, he reminded himself, what did he know about these things?   It was hard to feel wholly enthusiastic about a suit he had purchased largely in deference to his expanded waistline, even if it met with at least one woman's approval.   He hardly knew how he had picked it out, actually; the whole shopping experience had been brutal.  So many styles to choose from, the smarmy attentiveness of the young, perfect-looking salesman, not to mention the cost, which was a great deal more than he had bargained for…The only consolation was that the salesman had successfully steered him to something both dark and tailored enough to slim down his…silhouette.  

Despite his current preoccupation, he really was not a vain man.  These sorts of unhappy thoughts only plagued him at odd intervals, usually when he found himself admiring Sara's litheness.   She had a lovely, light figure, while his own was …well, a good thirty pounds heavier than it used to be.   What bothered him most was his conviction that she must have noticed the change since she arrived in Vegas, especially when she compared him to the other men she knew, including…that guy.  He really didn't know what his former rival looked like, but his insecurities assured him that the younger man looked better, and fitter, than him.  Feeling even more at sea that he had before, Grissom looked doubtfully at his reflection in the glass of his office door and sighed.  This is probably as good as it's going to get, Michelin Man, he told himself ruefully.  Time to move.  After one final, unnecessary adjustment to the knot in his tie, he moved into the hall to look for her.

Swearing.  That must be what he was hearing.  Grissom stepped just inside the door to the break room.  He could only see Sara's back, but her angry mutters were unmistakable.   At regular intervals between her grunts and curses, she tugged fiercely on a drawer.  He recognized it as the one where they kept the plastic knives and forks, and that it appeared to be stuck.   Each time Sara yanked it open, whatever what causing the obstruction made a loud smacking sound as it hit not only its own casters, but the bottom of the drawer above as well.   Grissom's eyes drifted to the plastic fork that already rested on top of the bright colored can of fruit that sat on the counter to Sara's right.   He stared at it for a moment.  What was she so desperate to retrieve from that drawer if she already had a fork?  

"Do you need some help with that?"

"Goddamnit!"

Intent on breaking through whatever was blocking her access to the drawer, she had not heard Grissom approach.  When she heard his voice directly above her lowered head, she had jumped and slammed her thumb into the cabinets.  She bit down hard on her lip now to distract herself from the pain, and stood up straight.  Her mouth opened to growl at Grissom for sneaking up on her, but the words died on her tongue.  _The man was_…she closed her mouth abruptly…_fabulous._  It was the only word that would do. As she readied her lips to register her appreciation and looked him up and down, she wrapped her uninjured hand around her thumb and squeezed it distractedly.  If her nail had felt a little bit less as if it had been ripped clean off, she would barely have noticed the pain.  As it was, she tried not to scream.  

"Sara, are you okay?  Did you hurt your hand?"  The pain on her face was obvious, and he reached down to force her hands apart so that he could assess the damage.  

She let him loosen her grip, and raise the hand that been hurt up to his face.  

"Ah…it's nothing.  I just jammed my thumb.  And I guess I banged the nail pretty good."  They both inspected the slim thing, which he held in both hands.  The nail had not actually been torn, but there was some bleeding underneath the surface, just below the crescent of the nail bed.  

"Looks painful.  The nail is still intact, but I think you're going to have to cut the extra growth down just to be on the safe side, " he noted, turning her thumb gently back and forth to catch the light.

She managed a small smile.  "Yeah.  I usually don't let my nails get this long.  Guess that's what I get for being…"

He considered her over his glasses briefly before dropping his eyes back to her hand.  He hadn't noticed before, but her nails were longer.  She normally kept them cut down so that there was very little free nail visible—neat, but no nonsense.  Now she had some growth, maybe an eighth of an inch on each finger.  And, he realized quickly, there was paint—polish, he corrected himself.   It wasn't clear, but it came close--just a hint of a pale pink so sheer that he could see straight through it to her natural nails.  As he moved her hand back and forth, the light danced across the curious color in tiny gleams.   It made for a very pretty display.    

His head dipped further downward for a better look.  "What's this color called?"   His voice was quiet, almost a murmur. 

She stared at the top of his head.   It was probably as straightforward of a question as it seemed.  But although she had worn the polish in hopes he would notice, now that he had she was more than a little chagrined.  He probably thought she was trying to be something she wasn't.

"Uh, not really sure…I just grabbed the palest shade I could find…it was part of a free gift set thing I got with another purchase…they insisted I take it, " she said jerkily, the words coming in fits and starts.

He settled her down with his eyes.  "Nice."

She felt the warning surge of warmth, but managed to forestall the blush in time.  "Thanks."

She figured he must not have heard the voices in the hallway when she did, because when she abruptly pulled her hand out of his, she could see his eyes cloud over before he looked away.

"Hey guys."   Nick preceded Warrick into the room and grabbed at a chair.  His eyes widened comically.  "Well, well, what do we have here, boss?  Going GQ on us?"

"I think it's called the Grissom look, Nick." 

Warrick's smile was sly.  He tried to catch Sara's eye; she busied herself in the examination of a spot on the floor as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

Grissom looked from one to the other, frowning.  "What was that?"

"Nothing, man, nothing.  Inside joke,"  Warrick replied, with a careless wave of his hand. He walked to the table and sat on its edge.  "So, why the Hugo Boss, boss?"

Grissom sighed.  "The Rittle funeral was this afternoon."

"Oh yeah, I forgot.  Two o'clock, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'd guess it was probably over by…what, 3:30?"  He took in the suit again.  "Didn't have time to go home and change, huh?"

"Well, I…I had to come in and do some paperwork, and I was sure I had a change of clothes here in my locker."  Grissom shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.  "But then…I realized that I took those clothes to be cleaned the other day.  After I was already here."  He shrugged and hid his hands in his pockets. 

Warrick took in this little performance with amused eyes.  "Oh, right, right."  He looked over at Sara again, who was still determined not to make eye contact.  She could tell what Warrick was getting at, but she didn't think Grissom would appreciate her joining in her colleague's little joke.  Besides, as she confirmed by checking him out from the corner of her eye, the man looked too damn good to let him walk away feeling anything less than appreciated.   Caught up her surreptitious ogling, she made the mistake of squeezing her thumb again and was forced to suppress a yelp of pain.  

"What kind of noise was that, Sara?" Nick laughed.

She gave him a look.  "A whimper.  I hurt my thumb, OK?"

Grissom broke off his attempt to stare Warrick down, and turned back to Sara. "Speaking of which, what were you looking for anyway?  You already have a fork."

"Can opener," she mumbled.

He reached into the small dish rack on the counter.  "Here you go," he noted calmly.

"And since you've hurt yourself inflicting property damage on my lab, why don't I just do this for you?"  With a few coordinated flicks of his wrist, he worked his way around the can, carefully pried off the lid, and placed it in the sink.

"There."  When he looked up, her dark eyes were focused on his. 

"Can I have some?"   Warrick's sinewy arm snaked between them and grabbed the can.  Grissom eyed him sharply.

"Sara lets me have the pears," the younger man explained, straight-faced.  Sara started to laugh, but the stare that Grissom sent her way quickly forced her to transform it into a cough. 

"Pretty shade.  'Secret Garden,' right?"  Pointing to her hands, Warrick raised an eyebrow.  He had meant to tweak her about this girly upgrade days ago, but now he was glad he had waited; any opportunity to yank Sara's chain in front of Grissom was a serious bonus.

Sara's jaw went slack.  "How did you know that?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, Sparky."

Grissom squinted at Warrick.  _Sparky?_  His head swiveled back to Sara.  _And why did she pretend she didn't know the name?_

Sara read the question in his eyes, and floundered her way to a reply.  "Cosmetics companies…stupid names…lame marketing ploys... "  

With an innocent grin, Warrick neatly sidestepped their boss's other unspoken question.  "I used to date a manicurist.  She always brought her colors home." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "That's an Essie 'Special Series' color, too.  Can't get it unless you buy it from a salon.  They don't do department store giveaways or stuff like that."

Sara's face went completely red.

"Anyway, don't forget to leave me the pears when you're done.  I'll pick up the can from the fridge later."   Satisfied with this mischief, he returned the can to the countertop.  He looked first at Sara, then at Grissom, offering them both a mysterious evaluation.  Then he turned and strode out.  Nick, duly impressed, flashed an admiring grin at his friend's back before heading out behind him.   

Outside in the hallway, Warrick gave a single shake of his head.  _Geeks, gussied up.   Heaven help us._

*****

"I woke you."

"Mmm…no, no, I was just…" Her brain was befogged.  "I was…just listening to some music, and I guess I needed to rest my eyes for a minute," she finally mumbled.

"Sure you were.  With your face pressed into the pillow so hard that I can barely hear you," he teased her, amused.  "It's okay, I'll just talk to you later."

"No, no, I'm fine. Talk to me."  Her eyes closed again.

He hesitated.  God knew she needed her rest, especially on her day off, but if more than a day or so went by now without their speaking…well, it didn't do wonders for his peace of mind.   He wished he had thought of some reason or purpose to his call before he picked up the phone.  It would have made it easier to justify disturbing her.

When Grissom remained silent, Sara sighed. "This is one of my favorite songs.  Can you hear it?"  As often happened, she had fallen asleep to music.  She fumbled for the CD remote and clicked up the volume.

He grimaced.  It was just his luck that she would ask.  His hearing was so often muted these days, it was a wonder he was able to hear her as clearly as he did.   It was one of the only things he regretted about interacting with her like this—the risk.  Nothing but random chance dictated whether her voice would fade out to a level so low that he would be forced to ask her to repeat herself again and again.  The first few times it had happened, as he listened to music in his car, as he spoke to a clerk in a store, and even, once or twice while he was alone in his office, he thought he was going crazy.  He could handle the quiet roaring or high-pitched tones that only he could hear, but the dampening of sound, the brutal suddenness of it, was a different matter.

"Kind of," he replied, vaguely.  "You know what cordless phones are like."  

"Oh, let me turn it up some more," she said sleepily, missing the slight undercurrent in his voice.  She pressed the remote again and burrowed more deeply under her covers. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yeah."   Better to let her get caught up in describing it to him, and simply agree when he could.   "So who are we listening to?  Starsinger?"

"Cocteau Twins."  She laughed gently.  "And it was Star_sailor_, Grissom, not Starsinger…Man."

He frowned.  "Whatever.  Starsailor, Cocteau Twins…what kinds of names are those?"  

"What kind of name is Pink Floyd?" she countered.

"An excellent one."

"Uh-huh."  She smiled at this illogic.  "Anyway, this is a great album."  She paused to listen.   "Especially this song, too…"

"Sorry, I can't make out the words."

"Oh, me either," she chuckled.  "That's one of the funny things about these guys.  I swear, no one can understand what the hell the lead singer is saying."  She rubbed her eyes.  "They rarely print the lyrics in the liner notes, and so everyone scrambles to decipher them.   I went online looking for them, and it's like a cottage industry…people who do 'lyrics interpretations' of the Cocteau Twins.  Personally, I'd rather not pin them down like that…Some things are better left to the imagination, you know?" 

She yawned lightly, hoping she didn't sound as incoherent as she felt.  "Plus, that way you focus on only the most poetic lines, which are always the ones that matter most and magically, the only ones you can make out.  After that, though, you let the music itself do the rest."

"How so?" He asked, curious.

"Well, you can hear the amazing beat of the song that's playing right now, right?  It's…hypnotic, isn't it?  You can sort of fall into the sound itself, on its own.  And you you, but then you hear the one line.." She paused, waiting for the chorus.  " _'I only want to love you_…Just that one line. But then, what else do you need?" 

"I can't imagine."

"Yeah, I know."  Suddenly she laughed.

"What?"

"One of my college roommates had a name for songs like these."

He started to smile.  "Well?" 

"Oh, come on, you can hear it as well as I do.  Just listen…" she hedged.

"I hear something, but I still don't know what you mean."

She rubbed her face in exasperation.  "Never mind.  I don't know why I even mentioned it."

"But apparently, you do."  

_And so do you, you little…_she shook her head.   "What is this, phone sex?  Just…never mind."

His eyes took on a devilish glint.  "What exactly is 'phone sex,' anyway?"

"If you think I'm going to say 'beauty' again, forget it," she warned tartly.

"Too bad," he shrugged, trying not to laugh.  "Well, I suspect that beauty doesn't really come into it, anyway."  His tone turned thoughtful.  "Did you know that phone sex businesses have some of the highest profit margins in any industry?  Ironic, given that they're organized along a traditional assembly line production model adapted for use in catalog companies that use call centers to service their customers."  He made an approving noise.  "Whether you're selling sweaters or sex, all it takes is renting a space and lining up operators to answer the phones."

"Cite your source."  She grinned as she shifted her head on the pillow.  "I knew that roller coaster thing was a sham.  Diversions…right."

He sighed. "Don't be ridic--."

"You might as well admit it.  I can always hack into your credit cards records, anyway."

"Sara.  I do not do phone sex." 

"You mean because you have it done _to_ you?"

"Shut up."  The sternness was undermined by the hint of laughter.

"Well, that would kind of defeat the purpose, don't you think?"

Now he really was laughing.  "I'm hanging up on you in exactly two seconds."

"Okay, okay," she relented, sounding pleased.  "Don't want to turn into 'Alone By the Telephone' just yet." 

"Good," he said dryly.   "So what else can you make out on this CD?"

"Practically nothing.  It's mostly phrases…" 

"What's your favorite, then?"  

"Oh that's easy," she smiled.  "_Heaven or Las Vegas_…"  She considered for a moment.  "You know, I first bought this album way back in college when a  friend turned me onto it.  I must have listened to it a hundred times over the years."

"And here you are."

"And here I am."

  
  


They were both quiet.  "So which is it?" he asked.

"Well, like I said, who knows what Liz Frasier is saying, but from what I can make out, it sounds like she's tilting toward Vegas."

  
  


The singer's opinion was not the one he was seeking, but he did not correct her.

"She says something like, '_Must be why I'm thinking of Las Vegas, Heaven or Las Vegas, Why it's so much brighter than the sun is to me_.'"   The words ran through her mind, tumbling over each other.  "And then later, " _'He's so scared to roll and then bet, too, I'm watching this_…_the last_ _fanfare.'_  I know that the lines from the chorus are right, but I'm not sure if I'm hearing the other phrases correctly." She shrugged, her shoulder stretching against the ribbed cotton of the undershirt she was wearing.  "Maybe I just made that last part up."

"You have a good ear," he said, staring at his hands.  "It's probably pretty close."

She fought back another yawn.  "Neat, anyway…Vegas over heaven…or maybe making Vegas into her heaven."  Her opened her eyes wide to try to will herself awake.   "I didn't know this until recently, but they performed that song here once…a long time ago.  Funny, huh?" 

"Yeah."

"And the rhythm is just perfect for this place, too.  All these slow, rolling guitars and electronic echoes…The first time I heard it, I'd never been here, or even thought about visiting.  But still, all I could think about was that if I ever did come here, I'd have to drive out of Vegas, and off towards the desert and the mountains with that song playing as loud as I could stand." She sighed. "When I leave, that's what I'll listen to. "

He felt a sharp pinch.  "When you…leave?"

She tried to deflect another yawn, and failed.  God, I'm tired, she thought.  But she hardly wanted to say good night, either.

"Yeah…you know…it's always seemed like a farewell song to me.  Just seems like the best way to hear it is while facing the mountains and the desert…moving towards the open…" She ran her tongue over lower lip, losing the battle against her urge to sleep.  "I don't know, maybe if I had the chance to listen to it on the way in…when I first came here, it would be different.  But you said to hurry, so I flew, instead of coming by car.  You should always see Vegas first on the road, you know?  See the city's edge from the road, and then go straight in…then straight out…" 

Her voice trailed off.   The next time her eyes opened, she sighed again, this time apologetically.  "I'm sorry, Grissom, I can barely think right now.  I must be babbling…Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

She wasn't sure if she then drifted off for another minute or two, or if he had actually been silent for that long.  "Gris?  Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here."  Even the words felt heavy. 

"I probably won't even remember what I said tomorrow," she murmured.  "Will you remind me?"

He looked at his reflection in the perfectly square window where he liked to take in the view.  _A ghost_.  "Sure."

The sound of her sleepy smile was still some comfort.

"Okay then.  See you tomorrow?"

"Of course…Now go back to sleep."

He could just hear the soft rushes of her breath.   

"Night."

********

tbc…


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Disclaimer, header in Chapter One

Notes: Well…

********

Needles, neatly arranged, but no insulin.  Water and botox, but no food.  Enemas, plastic bags, and a dirty, ugly coat, which Catherine was currently holding out with one hand from across the room.  And, perhaps strangest of all, large glossy prints of herself papering the walls under art lighting.  She even had a Warhol look-alike hung near the front door that reproduced her image into four bright blocks of color, instead of Marilyn Monroe's.   The irony of choosing to immortalize herself in the style of a man who would surely have glanced at his elegant watch every time he saw her, noting the slow ticking of her precious minutes of fame.  Grissom's eyes moved over these items again without really seeing them.   What was he missing here?  Catherine had said something, he saw her lips move, but it did not penetrate.  If this apartment stood as one bookend to the victim's life, surely the dumpsite was the other.  Things were bound to seem clearer there.

Though it was a cool evening, Grissom barely noticed the chill as he stepped away from the building and into the street.  Head down, he concentrated on thinking through the static.  Static that was more like a dull roar that ebbed and flowed capriciously, so quiet at times that he had to press a finger to one ear to hear it clearly, but more often, loud enough to drown out more than he would have thought possible.  This was one of the loud times.   The harsh sound would diminish eventually, maybe even within a few minutes if he was lucky.   A temporary reprieve, of course, the prospect of which should have frightened him.  Instead, it merely left him numb.  He had too much to do in the real world to focus on what was going on inside his head.  

He walked rapidly through the mostly deserted alley, hands in his pockets, looking from his shoes to the dirty ground and then back up to the space around him.  Soon enough, he caught sight of the first of Ashleigh James' unlikely neighbors.  Lost souls, all of them, but not always lonely…A white dog trotted towards him, smiling in the odd way that canines do, and watched him for a moment.  Grissom turned his head to follow the dirty string attached to its neck back to a man in a blue cap, with long curly hair growing wild down to his shoulders.  Their eyes met; the man pulled his dog away.  Grissom frowned, preoccupied by questions.  It was hard to reconcile the face on the walls with the needles and bags, but no doubt it all made sense to the victim, somehow.  Did it make sense to her killer, who left her out in the open with only the trappings of her model's life—her planner and her bag, but not her face?  The face that was so perfect on a wall, but imperfect on her.  Imperfect because someone made it so, someone who took the time to wheel her to that specific place once she was dead.  He shook his head.  He was definitely missing something.

Small groups of people, strung out in pairs or threesomes, talking quietly near barrel fires and makeshift beds.  There was a flash of dark hair on a woman who stood off by herself; he stared at her absently, but kept moving.   A few more steps brought him into bright fluorescence and colored neon, a typical Vegas sidewalk with more affluent nocturnal activity.   He could pick up some things now, muffled echoes of laughter and conversation, even heels clicking against pavement, but they did not capture him.  Instead he probed his assumptions.  _Was this the path the killer had taken to move the victim to the underpass?  Would he have risked it?_  The body had been covered in papers and old clothes, but still, it would be taking a chance.  He looked up; his destination loomed not very far ahead.  He left the sidewalk and crossed the street.  The concrete supports of the bridge, massive and almost white in the glow of the full moon, stood as rough-hewn beacons.  From this angle, their stark profiles both framed and obscured his view of the clearing where the body had been found.  He kept moving closer, craning his neck unconsciously to see beyond the concrete edges.  Someone was there, he was sure, but he caught only a glimpse of black at first.  Then he moved again and saw her.  

She stood in place, with her back to him, hands buried in her jacket.  When she turned at the sound of his voice, her hair spilled out into the night and he could see the light above them through its long strands.  He remembered her sleepy voice from the night before, laughing and dreamy, before it softly faded away.  She was here for context, she said.  He watched her, a skeptical twist to his lips.  Somehow, she always turned up in the places he least expected.  The roaring quieted for the moment, he faced her and spoke of the victim's journey from where he had just been to where they now stood.  She listened and then she thought aloud, sorting through the possibilities.  He turned to look at the scene, head and eyes moving to the right; she mirrored him, but to the left.   When she turned right to see what he had seen, he turned left to see what she had.  From either direction, her hair rose and fell in the wind at the edge of his vision.  Finally, they both turned toward the billboard, a mile-high extension of one woman's public beauty.   A little piece of the puzzle clicked into place in his mind and hers as they traded thoughts on the spectacle of it.  Then she left, destined to return to her labors, and he to his.

*******

He saw her eyes drift downward, her energy finally spent.   She had been front and center for the past half hour as she led them all through the victim's mind, but her overall immersion in the young woman's world had lasted much longer.  She seemed a bit worn, and instead of rising from the tall stool on which she sat, she rolled the video remote back and forth between her hands.   Grissom watched that movement, the restlessness of which was echoed in the waves of some stifled emotion washing over her face.  

"You were great, Sara."

Her hands stopped their tossing, but her smile was subdued. 

"Breaking the code was the key.  Without that, none of this makes any sense."  He raised his brows, amending that thought.  "Not that any of it truly makes sense anyway.   It's hard to conceive of any living thing willfully mutilating itself, destroying its own evenness the way she did.   The pursuit of symmetry is…a biological script, too hardwired and powerful for any creature to ignore.  Insects and humans included."   He could feel her watching him.  "Functionally, humans are coded the same way," he added.  "It's just that our neuroses and addictions can complicate what nature demands."

She nodded slightly.  "And those problems make us act unnaturally…literally and metaphorically.   I can't imagine what Ashleigh's life was like—to feel so completely out of sync with your own body."  Her mouth turned downward as she looked past him.  "Every time she looked in the mirror, it must have been a kind of torture…''  

"It really isn't a cliché, you know," he said softly, trying to bring her back.  

"What isn't?"

"That 'beauty is truth, and truth beauty'.  We've all heard that quote in every English lit class we've every taken, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.  Beauty, real beauty based on symmetry and alignment, is a kind of truth.  No one can be symmetrical only on the outside and truly be beautiful; it has to reflect the alignment of outside and in.  Surface and depth, commenting on each other."  He had succeeded too well in drawing her eyes back to his; now he found it difficult to hold his tongue.  But he managed to stop himself; it was too soon to say more.

"But that's a rare thing…perfect symmetry," she mused, her mind still full of Ashleigh, rather than herself.   "I guess she finally gave up the quest."  She looked down at her hands again.  "Who can blame her?"

He opened his mouth to speak of quests, both natural and inevitable, when his watch beeped.  The appointment.  He covered the watch face with the fingers of his other hand instinctively, as if the timepiece could broadcast his secret to her from across the room. 

Sara, startled by the sudden noise, took in his altered expression.  She could almost see him turning away from whatever he had been about to say and looking inward, as if something there that she could not see had suddenly demanded his attention.  She caught him touching his watch protectively.  His unease was palpable.

"I have to go."  Hurried.  Abrupt.

"Oh.  But…you can't have a meeting at this hour, can you?  We're way past the end of shift."  

He evaded her eyes.  "No…I told Cassie I would drive her back to her part of the Strip, and then…I have to be somewhere."  He kept his tone vague.  "But I should go get her now if I don't want to be late."

She laced and unlaced her fingers in her lap, trying to hear what he was not saying.  "Okay."   When he did not elaborate further and she had watched her hands do their tangled dance for the third time, she looked up.  "So I'll talk to you later…maybe in a couple of hours?"  She tried to smile_._

He blinked, shifting his eyes somewhere below hers.  "Of course."   

The moment that followed lasted just long enough to fix the image in his mind.  Sara, posed on the stool, back straight, legs uncrossed, hands in her lap…gazing back at him with hopeful eyes.  He ran his eyes over her, his lips tightening imperceptibly.   Sensing danger, he turned and left swiftly before she could complete her silent appeal.

******

Grissom turned to the left, feeling the still warm air of the late afternoon ruffle his hair.  Leaving the Tahoe behind, he began to walk up the street towards the plaza just ahead.  At this hour, he melted easily into the milling crowd.  Shopping bags and spouses, children and friends, all commingled in noisy clamor.   Chattering lips exclaimed, carelessly held possessions slipped to the ground, heads fell back in laughter, but he heard nothing.   As he steered carefully around those in his path, trying not to approach anyone too closely, he was drawn to the fountain in the middle of the square.  He walked right up to its edge, and found himself staring fixedly as if he had never seen such a thing before.   He had certainly heard it before—the brash tumbling of water forced out in rhythmic pulses, which normally blots out everything in a decent-sized radius.  The idea of blanketing extraneous noise in this way had always appealed to him; it was a kind of enforced privacy, even in the midst of a crowd.  But now that he carried his own roaring with him wherever he went, he could only watch the bold water silently, his lips parted in disbelief.

His weary feet pushed him onward.  _Where now?_  He had no real idea; his only coherent plan was to postpone the inevitable return home.   It was normally his surest refuge, but he could not be there like this.  Not now, when he truly could not hear a sound.   The doctor's voice drifted through his mind.   "A year, maybe."  An endless span of time to the young, perhaps, but a blink of the eye to someone already halfway through life.   Two years had passed since Sara had joined him here, and even that seemed like no time at all.

Nearly too late, he caught a glimpse of something bearing down upon him.  The driver stared angrily from behind tinted glass; Grissom had wandered into the crosswalk like a blind man.  After a stunned, lurching moment, he raised his hands, palms up, in apology.  He then moved out of the way unsteadily, closing his still outstretched hands into fists.  His balance was getting worse, too.   The doctor claimed there was a chance it might not blossom into full-blown vertigo, but the odds were fifty-fifty, at best.  As he lowered his hands, he wondered how it would happen.  Would he just fall down one day from the spinning inside his head, or would he have to ask the others to repeat themselves so many times that they would simply guess?   Who knew, or cared?  His life was already ending, right before his eyes.  

He made it to the railing that marked the border of the plaza and separated pedestrians from the swift-moving traffic that bound the space on three sides.  Unclenching his hands for a moment, he grabbed hold of the top railing, squeezing it as hard as he could.  He turned his face to the horizon, away from the oncoming cars, trying to see the desert.  Wind artificially roughened by the rush of vehicles unsettled his hair again, dragging it this way and that.  Grissom searched the skyline for something, anything, his mouth open.  Feeling the traffic unnerved him; he needed to be somewhere without any peculiar vibrations that substituted for the real thing, the things that he ought to be able to hear.  Somewhere blank, empty.  His lips came together in a hard line as he detached himself from the metal rod. It was a few minutes' walk to his car, and with luck, only a few minutes more to the desert.  He lacked the added cover of darkness this time, but he would have to do without.  The privacy was far more important.

*******

Sara clicked off her television with one sharp punch of her thumb.  It usually distracted her quite well, but not tonight.  She needed to talk to him.  But she had already called his house three times; either he really was not home, or he was avoiding her.  Both possibilities made her cringe.  Not too long ago, when she talked about wanting to get a caller id box, he had admitted that he had one.  She smiled bitterly as she remembered teasing him about never using it to screen her out.   He had laughed, saying only that the thought had never crossed his mind…Of course, he could still be out somewhere, away from home.  So what's worse, Sara, she asked herself cruelly.  The idea that he is home and just ignoring you, or that he isn't home and is just ignoring the fact that you are home, waiting?  The delicate skin of her forehead crinkled into a web of fine lines.  What thing could he be doing that would take four hours from the time he had left the lab?  And when he knew she was waiting to talk to him?   He hadn't contradicted her when she guessed at the delay being "a couple of hours," so he knew she would be home by that time, waiting.   She kneaded the knuckles of one hand roughly into the other, a nervous habit.   Somehow, she was always waiting.

She had just started to make her way to her bedroom to lie down when the phone rang.  She stopped short, and then rushed to pick it up.  

"Hello?"

"Hi.  It's me."

"Hank?"

He laughed, a deep, lazy sound that helped her recognize his voice.  "Uh, yeah, Sara.  Glad to know I'm so forgettable.  How could you forget the guy who sat through _The Panic Room_ with you, huh?"

Her heart sank despite his banter.  She had hoped, naturally, to hear… Swallowing, she forced some cheer into her voice.  "Hey, that was a great movie—Jodie Foster kicked ass.  And at least it wasn't a chick flick."  Why did she feel so uncomfortable just talking to him?  "So…what's up?"

"What are you doing tonight?  Are you busy?  It's been a few weeks; I could use a diversion.  How about you?"

He might still call.  Maybe he got paged to come in for a case unexpectedly.  But if he had, he would have called her in, too.   He did that often enough, so why not tonight?   Their conversation had been interrupted earlier, so why not call her in so they could work together?  They could keep each other company; they could talk some more; that would have been entertainment enough tonight.   At least for me, she corrected herself.   Who the hell knew what entertained him?

"Hey, you still there?"

She shook herself.  "Yeah, I'm here.  Sorry, I was just…thinking."

"What's there to think about, Sara?  Unless you have plans, let's go.  You haven't seen _Spider-Man_ yet, have you?"   When she did not reply, he lowered his voice into a teasing wheedle.  "I've already paid for the tickets, so if you don't go, I'll be forced to ask some homeless woman outside the theater. Come on.  Besides, you don't want to be the only one at the lab who hasn't seen it, right?"

Not the only one, she thought, biting her lip. "Okay."

"Great," he breathed, sounding pleased.  "So I'll see you at the Century on Tropicana at 7?"

"Yeah.  Seven," she said, more firmly.  "I'll see you there."

She hung up and slowly closed her eyes.  It was probably unfair to inflict her mood on Hank, but the good thing about going to movies is that you don't have to talk, really.  He usually wanted to grab coffee afterward, but she would pass tonight.   She was too tired anyway, she told herself.  It wasn't that she hoped Grissom would be back from wherever he was by then and that if she stayed out for coffee, she might miss his call.  At least that was the story her mind insisted that her heart believe.  And when she returned and he still didn't call, what then?  She felt her shoulders droop as she pulled on her jacket and picked up her purse.  Well, he had to call, didn't he?  He had to know she was waiting.   He had to.

******

Grissom leaned against his car, shivering unreasonably.  The sun had begun to set, but the temperature had not yet dropped significantly.  He had tried to stop the tremors trickling through his body, but he couldn't.  _Maybe I'm just afraid.  It's about time I was_.  His hearing had actually improved somewhat during the drive out to this favorite spot in the desert, about thirty minutes outside of the city.  It wasn't back to normal, but he could at least make out some sounds again.  That improvement, and his presence in this place where everything could be relied upon, the level sand under his feet, the reddish cast of the mountains, even the dull green cacti scattered amid brown brush, had eased some of the panic he felt earlier.  He could breathe out here; apparently he could hear out here, as well.  It had to be the purest coincidence, of course, but a man in his position could not afford to question even random chance.  His private place brought some relief.  More specifically, his privacy brought some relief.  That much he knew.  But still, he thought of her.

If he was honest, before things fell apart in that cold room filled with diagrams of ears, noses, and throats, the visuals of his doctor's trade, some part of him had begun to imagine bringing her here.  It had become a favorite fantasy, a scenario to which he added new details as he saw fit.  Her sleepy voice had supplied the latest version…they would drive out here, and he would pull off the gray road to this very spot.  The breeze would move her hair, and the way his hands would graze her skin as he tucked the stray strands behind her ears would make her smile.  He would ask if this way of leaving Vegas was do justice to that song.   She had said it was a song to leave to--if she left with him like this, would that qualify?  Was it enough to believe that they had left?  She would laugh and tilt her head back for a moment, wondering aloud if he memorized everything she said now, asleep or awake.  He would say nothing, merely smiling his reply as he searched her face for a hint of her answer.  And if life and fate were perfect, when it came, he would finally bend his head to hers.   

He started violently.  The sound had vanished again.   He felt himself grow frantic, willing it to return.  But it did not.  It would do as it pleased, fading in and out, regardless of his demands, and no amount of daydreaming about her would change that.  Drawing one deep breath after another, he struggled for calm.  There was nothing to be done about the sound right now.  But there was something to be done about Sara.  Something damaging and raw, but necessary.  It would not be enough to simply stop calling.   He had to refuse to engage with her when she called him, as she surely would for a while yet, before his coolness put an end to it all.  God only knew what would befall him then, without her, but it was clear that he would be forced to find out.  If it was painful to envision bearing the beauty of the world without her, it would be far worse to rob her of it with the silent future that was all he had to offer now.  She deserved so much more that that.  

The sky had darkened and the first stars had braved the night before he could bring himself to get behind the wheel.  As he placed his hands on the dashboard, he looked up through the windshield with searching eyes.  When he did not find the omen he sought, he leaned back.   After a few moments, he started the car and returned to the road.   He drove in silence, trying to find solace in his familiar solitude.   And in between the plans he sketched to rebuild the walls between them, he dreamed while awake, his eyes flickering with reckless hope.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

Header, disclaimer in Chapter One

Notes:  Well, it seems this story wasn't quite ready to go to bed.  g  I didn't plan to write an epilogue initially, but still, here it is.  Thanks again to Devanie for her support and for threatening me with angry emoticons if I didn't take Chapter Seven's events a step further.  And thanks to everyone who had read and reviewed thus far.  ;-)

*********

So he took the stairs.  

The first flight seemed painless enough, but by the second, the strain had begun to show.  He stopped to rest, leaning heavily into the hand that braced him against the banister.  The past few weeks had worn down more than his spirit, it seemed; his body felt just as leaden and unfamiliar, just as prone to strange sensations and—the dizziness roiled him so suddenly that he nearly fell down.   _Not now_.  _Not now.   _The knuckles of the hand that held him upright began to ache as the minutes passed; his grip slackened.  After a deep breath, he anchored the sole of his foot to the next step and pushed himself forward.  

By the time he reached the third floor landing, the touch of vertigo had faded.  His knees still hurt, but that was a small price to pay for solitude.  He could not have borne the elevator's surveillance.  Security cameras were not the issue; he found the sharp, suspicious eyes of the older woman who would have shared the ride with him far more intrusive.  Even as he stood in front of its open doors, trying to decide whether to step inside, she had looked him up and down critically, taking in his careless clothing and unshaven face.  Although she had just allowed him to slip in behind her as she keyed open the front door, she was clearly reconsidering the wisdom of that impulse.  He watched her clutch her handbag to her side and dart a stiff arm forward to jab at the buttons that would end the stalemate.   As she hit the one she wanted, she frowned up at him uncertainly.  A word of reassurance rose to his lips, but died unsaid; he would need every such word for himself.   Finally, the shiny, brushed steel doors slid shut between them.  Grissom looked at the vague outline he made in their reflective surface, a blurry mass of black relieved only by the splotch of beige that should have been his face.  Unrecognizable, even to himself.  Perhaps it was a warning, or a portent of things to come, but he was already here and she was only three flights away.

He blinked, focusing again on the red lettering of the sign affixed to the access door in front of him.  Third floor.  He swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, looking right and left.  _Which way?_  He moved to the left on a hunch, his feet dragging clumsily against the carpeting.  210…220…230... If the progression had not told him, the tingling of his nerves would have--this was indeed the right direction.    250…260…_270_.  Sara's unit was at the very end, and her front door sat at an angle from a rather large window set into the wall.   She probably gazed out of that window every day as she came and went, fishing for her keys and tumbling her lock.  He moved in front of the door to mimic her routine, turning his head to the left as he put his hand on her doorknob.  Not a terrible view, but the lights of the city would be blocked at night by the surrounding buildings.  She would like his view much better, if he could persuade her to look.  If he could persuade her of anything now, after all that he had done, and failed to do.  

The hand that was still wrapped around her door handle, the humble, functional thing she touched every day, imprinting it with minute traces of herself, twitched slightly.   Had she just held it?  Its metal casing felt so warm.  His eyes skittered at random angles in search of a sign of good fortune, but none appeared.  When he could wait no longer, he pulled his hand away. The hesitant sound his loose fist made against the wood of the door made him cringe.  He had begun to knock again when he heard her.  

"Who is it?"  

The voice, her voice, so long absent from what he claimed was his life outside the lab, rang out clearly.  She must have been standing right next to the door.  He looked steadily into the peephole in anticipation of Sara lifting her eyes to it from the other side.  He tried to smile, or otherwise project some bold confidence through the glass, but failed miserably.  The best he could do was to simply stare into the tiny lens, his face a mask.

"It's me, Sara."

She knew.  She knew before he spoke.  How was a mystery, but so was everything that continued to bind her to him.  She put her eye to the peephole.  Blankness.  She stepped back abruptly, stumbling.  She didn't want to see him if he looked like that.

"What do you want?"

_Everything.  Anything._

"I…I need to talk to you."

She stuffed the hopeful lift of her heart back down where it belonged.  

"Whatever it is, I'm sure you could have taken care of it at work."

His head fell forward. 

"No, I couldn't."

His hand found its way to the knob again, desperate to pick up her traces.  "Please open the door, Sara."

_Don't_, she commanded herself.  _Don't._

Her hands, small but disobedient things, moved forward to turn the locks.  She stepped back to give him room to enter, closed the door, and immediately folded her thin arms around herself, as if in self-defense.  

She wasn't looking at him.  She always looked at him, even when he wished she wouldn't.    Cautious, worried, he read her body's book--the barrier of her crossed arms, the way she leaned away from him as he passed.  His spirits sank still lower.  In spite of everything, in spite of what he knew he deserved, he had still hoped, greedily, for her sweetness.    

When he moved just past where she stood, he turned.  Her head was down and some of her dark hair had fallen forward; she seemed to be frowning at her shoes.  Grissom brought his hands together in front of his body, one broad, flat palm laid against the other in a kind of supplication.  He spoke softly.

"I need to talk to you."

The frown deepened.  "So talk."

"Not here."

She lifted her head so that their eyes met.   The coolness he saw almost made him step back.   "Why not?"

"I can't explain it, but…this isn't the place," he said hesitantly, feeling his skin grow warm under her scrutiny.  "I'd like you to come with me somewhere."  _Where you can't walk into another room and lock me out, or walk out of here and into your car.  Some place where you can't walk away because you might get lost without me.   Some place to keep you close. _

She caught some of this intention in his face.  _What is wrong with him?_  _His terms.  His rules.  Again_. 

"No."

He looked stricken.  She set her shoulders, willing herself not to give in. 

"Sara.  Please."  His voice drifted lower.  "Please."

They stared at each other, asking and refusing, asking and refusing, asking and…  Her mother's words assailed her.  "_You've got to do something, honey.  Move forward, or move away—I won't think any less of you either way, because neither choice is right or wrong.  But you've got to do something_."  Sara's mouth twisted with some peculiar emotion.  That was just how desperate she had become--she had called her mother, the only woman she knew who would listen without judgment.  She could appreciate the irony during her better moments.  While she lived with her parents and their lives were a mess, it was that refusal to judge one thing against the next, to take a hard line about anything--anything at all--which bothered her most.  Now that she lived alone and her life was a mess, she could see some of the benefits.

"Okay," she said quietly.  _This is something.  Isn't it?_

He exhaled a pent up breath and started to reach for her arm before he caught himself.  "You'll need your jacket."

*******

She sat stiffly, every muscle taut, staring out of the window.  Under other circumstances, she would have talked admiringly of the view, which only improved as they put more distance between them and the city.  But for once in her life, she had no words.  What was there to say?  Idle conversation to fill up the silence, or real conversation that would only create more silence in the end?  She forced her head back against the seat and attacked the soft gray leather of the armrest with her nails, cursing herself for not being strong enough to say no.  Why had he asked her to go in the first place?  Was she supposed to be impressed that he wanted to take her somewhere?  After all this time, it couldn't possibly make any difference. 

"What is the point of this, Grissom?"  

"For us to talk."  

"About what?"

When he didn't answer, her voice turned sharp.  "About nothing, apparently."  She sat in silence for a moment, working her jacket into a tight ball with her hands.  "Where are we going?"

"We're almost there," he said in neutral tones.  "It's just a place that's very familiar to me."

"Well, my apartment is very familiar to me and I don't understand why we couldn't stay there.  I don't want to be out in the middle of nowhere with you."  Seeing him flinch gave her some small satisfaction, but it was short-lived.  "Besides, did it ever occur to you that I might have plans tonight?"

He turned and held her eyes.  "Yes, it did."  She looked away. 

"So did you?"  

She had turned back to the window.  He glanced at the nearly empty road, then back at her rigid profile.

"Did you have plans?"

"What do you care?  As long as it doesn't affect my job performance, I don't see what it has to do with you."

He shrank back at the sound of his words on her lips.  Foolish words that he regretted as soon as they left his mouth, but still not soon enough.  She had followed him out to his car one morning, hurt, angry.  After backing off for a while when he first pulled away from her, she had begun calling him again.   But the caller ID display gave her away every time, making it easy to avoid the voice that had so often enticed him to say much more than he should.  

_"So, is this how it's going to be from now on?"_

_"What?"_

_"The least you could do is pick up the phone, Grissom.  I deserve that, at least."_

_He stared, steeling himself against her._

_"Is it the movie thing?  I told you I'm not going out with him, okay?  I told you that."  _

_Autopilot.  Instinct.  "As long as it doesn't affect your job performance, it has nothing to do with me."_

_Her face seemed to crash.  "Oh, I see.  Of course.  My mistake." _

_Something else he had said to her, a lifetime ago.  _

_"That's right, it couldn't be that.  You let go of me before you even heard about that, didn't you?"_

_He had to get away.  "If you'll excuse me, I have to go."  He turned his back to her and reached into his pocket for his keys._

_Brittle, like the thinnest glass. "Yeah, I've heard that before too."_

_By the time he gathered himself to turn back and face her, a series of purposeful strides had taken her almost completely out of sight._

The muffled sound of her fist hitting the armrest brought him back.  He focused on the blacktop ahead, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.  This still was not the place.

"We're almost there."

*******

As soon as he pulled to a stop, her door flew open.  Before he could react, she had slammed it shut.  He watched her run a hand through her hair and walk rapidly to the front of the Tahoe, positioning herself against it.  She stared straight into the horizon, not even bothering to shield her eyes.  The sun was setting in its usual halo of brilliant color, but the light was still stark and challenging.  Her defiant stance had to hurt, but she stood her ground and refused to look away. 

Grissom stepped out and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could.  _The words will come.  Just talk. _ He used the time it took to approach her to steady his heart and slow his breathing.  When he finally settled his body beside hers, just close enough to feel something of her warmth, he followed her eyes to the horizon.

"This is one of my favorite places."

She narrowed her eyes.  

"I've been here for years now, and it still surprises me.  Presence defined by absence.  Being here, and being nowhere."  He paused.  "Blankness too, but not the pre-programmed, mechanical kind."  She moved slightly.  He took a breath.  "Just…a kind of vagueness, where everything doesn't have to be defined, or at least, where everything gets redefined as something less…limited."  He turned to touch her with his eyes.  "Freedom from limits, constraints.  That takes privacy, I think."

She kept her gaze fixed on the gorgeous descent ahead of them.  "Probably."   She crossed her arms. 

"But if it's privacy you want, why am I here?"

"It's not…" He stumbled over the words and their weight, and fell silent.  _You know what I mean, you always know_.  "Why do you think you're here?"

She almost laughed.  "I don't know, Grissom.  So you can impart some life lesson that you think I need.  So you can stir me up, and then drop me again.   Because you're lonely."  Her voice shook.  "I have no idea."

"You do know," he insisted.  _You do_.  

"No. I don't.  And I am so tired of pretending that I do."

Something rose in his chest, high and tight.   When he could breathe again, he grasped for the one true thing.   

"You know about beauty, don't you?"

He watched her cover her mouth with her hand and turn away.  The bones of her shoulders were as delicate as a bird's, and when she curled in on herself he could see the movement ripple across her back like feathers ruffled by a breeze.  He placed his hand on her hair, stroking it gently. 

"There's too much beauty on this earth for lonely men to bear." 

When she shuddered, he took hold of her and slowly turned her towards him.  His answer to the question in her eyes came in a whisper.

"You are beautiful, Sara, and I am lonely.   What a pair we will make."

She watched with those eyes and he let her, giving her time to absorb the expression in his eyes and the emotion in his face, and finally, the feel of his hand against her cheek.  Her breath warmed his fingers as they played against her skin in some mysterious rhythm neither of them could have named.  When she had seen enough, when she had what she needed, she tried to speak.   

"There's something…" he began.

_I could say nothing_.  He was so very close to having her, free of sorrow and pity.   Wouldn't it be better that way?  Things might yet improve before she had to know.  _Miracles happen.  They do, I know they do. _ If he could just look away, maybe he could let the words pass unsaid.  But she was watching him with her heart in her eyes, and how could he?   His hand fell away from her face with a sigh.  It was better said without the comfort of her skin against his.

"Do you remember asking me…how I learned to sign?"

She did. 

"I couldn't tell you then.  I don't know why.  I mean, I do, but…" He stopped to take a breath.  "My mother went deaf when she was about my age.  Not from an accident…it's hereditary.  And…over the past few months, I…"

"How bad has it gotten?"  She didn't need details; she just needed to know what she was up against.

"I have a year, maybe."

"To hear?"  

He managed to nod, barely. 

"But not to live."   

Lost in the words, it took him a moment to realize that she was holding him, his hands in hers.  

"But…the future's unknown, I don't know what will happen to me, or when…I have to make decisions about surgery, and work, and…It's going to be hard, if not impossible to…"

"To love me?"  

He could only stare.  "Never."

"Then…that's all I need.  Deaf, blind…that's all I need."

She released one of his hands to brush the light hairs on his arm with the tips of her fingers, and curved her palm around its solidity, marking him as hers.    

"The only question is," she said slowly, her eyes bright, "what do you need?"   

Autopilot.  Instinct.

"I just need you." 

"If you really mean that, if you do, then--" 

Whatever she meant to say next was lost in his kiss, a sweet, brief grazing of his lips against hers.  The second time was much like the first, except for the way he lingered just a few seconds more.  The third time their mouths touched, he did not lift his head from hers for a long, long while.  She finally pulled herself away, shakily, to smile and breathe.  He gave her time for three inhalations, tightened his arms around her, and lowered his head again. 

This lovers' cycle repeated itself more times than either could count.  They were soon in terrible shape.

"Sara."  Tentative.  Embarrassed.  "Sara…"  He tried not to sound like a beggar, but it was hard to avoid when his head was pressed into her neck like a child. 

He felt the rumble of her low laugh in her throat before he heard it.  It set off a gentle vibration against his cheek that felt strangely like being tickled.  

"So now you want to sleep with me, huh?"

When he pressed himself into her a little harder as punishment for this recall, the echoed laughter tickled him again.

"I feel your pain, really I do," she said reassuringly, stroking his broad back.

"It's not pain, it's frustration," he sighed.  

"Mmm, I'm sure." She frowned, concentrating.  "Well, if we go 70 until we hit the city limits, take the Ventura exit instead of Palm, and then take Kingman the rest of the way, we can be at my place in…38 minutes." 

Grissom lifted his head at last.  "Make that 80, and we're down to 33."

He practically shoved her into the Tahoe.

********

Sara fidgeted, again, trying vainly to settle herself.  She glanced at the dashboard clock: twenty-three minutes to go.  _Damn._  She crossed her legs and bit down on her lip.  _He'll think I'm a freak. Then again…he knows I had sex in an airplane, so how surprised could he be?_  She looked over at Grissom, wondering for the umpteenth time how he seemed to bear the hormonal strain since their last kiss so calmly.  When he felt her watching him so steadily, he turned his head.  It was like catching him in a lie--the eyes totally gave him away.    She put a hand on his arm.

"Pull over."

Wild blue.  She would have to remember that precise look; it was a first.  She tried her best not to laugh.

"What?"

"You're that far gone yet," she said smoothly. "You heard me."

"Do you…have to use the bathroom, or something?"  _Am I dreaming again?_ _Jesus._

She looked at him.  "No."

His mouth opened just enough for her to see the tip of his tongue. "But, ah…it's…a car…I mean, SUV…"

Eyebrows raised, mouth curved, she simply stared him down.  "Eagle eyed observation.  Your back seats are detachable, right?  We'll need the room."

He pulled over.

There wasn't exactly a path to follow, but the terrain was smooth enough that the rugged vehicle was able to take them far off the main road.  Grissom could have stopped anywhere, really, but his nervousness made him keep driving, slowly, until his headlights revealed a small cluster of cacti and brush ahead.  Glad for any semblance of cover even though the evening darkness already obscured their presence perfectly well, he eased the Tahoe alongside the vegetation and shut off the engine.  He started to speak, hoping to dissuade her, but once again she hopped outside before he could stop her.  He craned his neck to watch as she moved to the back of the vehicle and tapped on the rear window.  When he continued to stare, instead of popping the door open, the tapping came again, more impatient this time.   Grissom sighed and forced himself out of the car.

"Sara, I don't think this is such a good idea," he hedged, approaching her warily. 

Her hands went to her hips.  "Why not?"

"Because…" he lowered his voice as if he feared being overheard.  "What if we get caught?"

Her laughter floated into the night sky.  "By whom?  Do you see anybody out here?"

He looked around with paranoid eyes. 

Sara closed the distance between them, and offered him a cagey smile.  "Oh, and anticipating your next objection, I'm quite sure that a responsible driver like you has a little survival kit in your vehicle.  Now, what does every good emergency kit have?  First aid supplies, flashlights, jumper cables…blankets…"  She was practically standing on top of him now.  "Am I wrong?" 

He took a step back.  "No…"

"Then I'd say we have everything we need," she concluded.

"But…"

"But what?"  Her hands were suddenly at his waist.

He exhaled, looking everywhere but in her eyes until she squeezed his middle softly.

"It just doesn't seem…special enough for you," he said anxiously.  "Especially for the first…"  He stopped and put his hands on her slim shoulders.  "I realize that I'm hardly the expert in this arena, but wouldn't you rather have a more…romantic…setting?"

"That depends on what your definition of 'romance' is."  She wrapped him up in her arms and put her lips to his ear.  "This _is_ romantic to me.  Me, you, alone, under the moon, doing something we've never done before."  When she pulled her head back to look into his eyes, her smile was as clear as he had ever seen it.  "Freedom from limits, remember?"  She pressed her lips to his.  "Privacy, for two."

She held him close until she felt his body relax.    

"You're rather amazing, you know." 

Her face seemed to glow.

"I know."

*******

He told her to let him do it, so she did.  

She stood back and watched the curious smile playing on his lips as he snapped the first blanket open and crawled inside the back of the Tahoe.  Kneeling, crouched, he flung the fuzzy thing aloft, a maneuver that made it billow in the air like a sail before it settled delicately to the floor.   He leaned forward, double folding the material over each metal fastener left exposed by the removal of the seats with a meticulousness that made her smile.   He took the same approach to smoothing the bunches and twists in the blanket as he swept the disorder away from the center and drove it back towards the edges.  Edges of red crisscrossed with blue, green and black that formed a wavy border around where they would soon lay. 

Grissom took a moment to evaluate his handiwork, and then reached for the second blanket, which was identical to the first.  This one sailed as well, but when it fell in a tangle, he didn't bother to rearrange it; they would be lifting it over themselves before long, anyway.  He shook his head at this last absurdity: only his excessive caution, one of the hidebound habits of a lifetime, explained why he had two blankets in the emergency kit instead of one.  Certainly he had never expected to use them in the way they were about to be used now.  Only Sara would come up with something like this, he laughed quietly.  Only Sara.  

"So are you finished making the bed or what, Grissom?  Bowerbirds take less time building their nests than you do."  

He twisted around at the sound of her voice.  "Are you sure you want to go down that road again?"

She grinned.  "What road?"

He nodded, more than willing to take her to school once more. "Okay, first of all, it's not a nest.  It's a bower. Hence the name, bowerbird.  What they build is just like the traditional wedding bower, except that it's made of twigs and grasses, and dressed up with scraps of flowers, feathers, shiny stones, and whatever other visually pleasing items the male bird can find."  He tilted his head in her direction.

"And second, if the female of the species weren't so hard to please, the poor male wouldn't have to fly his little heart out looking for all that pretty stuff."

She moved towards him with long, deliberate strides that made her hips hitch and fall in a rhythm that drove his bird defense from his head.    

"Hard to please?" She repeated with a sly smile.  "You don't know how good you have it."  

He eased himself out and back onto the ground, moving in close enough to look into her eyes.  "Well, I will."   He put both hands around her waist and drew her to him.  

She laughed.  "Are you ready?"

As he moved backward, he kept his hands firmly around her waist, and pulled her along.   When he felt the bumper against the back of his legs, he stopped moving and sat down.  With a simple roll onto his back, he began to ease himself inside.   As it became obvious that he was not going to let her go as he did so, Sara leaned into his hands, using them to balance herself as she crawled in over him on her hands and knees.   They slithered inside together with their eyes locked and her hair brushing against his face, in near perfect coordination.  When they finally stopped, he tugged her downward until she lay against him.  He smiled.  She bit her lip and gazed back at him in silence and sudden doubt.  

"You do know I love you?"

She relaxed into him slightly, but her eyes were still unsure.

"This is it, you know," she said in her quietest voice.  "You can't turn away from me again.  Not ever."

The accuracy of her anticipations never failed to please him.  He brought his hands up from her waist to frame her face.

"I think you just read my mind."

********

Deserts awaken mostly by light.  With little to block the morning sky besides brown scrub and sand, with no towering tree canopies or lush ground cover, the rising sun dominates the land.  The inky darkness is lightened not by streaks or bold intrusions, but by a general suffusion of the day into the night.  Most desert animals, nocturnal creatures, miss this natural wonder, compelled to sleep and gather strength for the next evening's struggles.   He pitied them.  They did not have the morning, and they did not have her. 

She lay next to him, her eyes still closed.  They had managed to fall asleep on their sides, facing each other.  It only seemed odd until the memories flooded back.  Loving, talking, laughing.   Loving again, only to talk again in quiet whispers with arms and hands curved over each other in possession.  The last thing he remembered was Sara laying her smooth palm against his face.  _"I love you."_   And in every dream thereafter, he held her tight and made her say it again and again. 

Her smile began before she even opened her eyes.  "Hello."  

After all the hurt and distance, she had almost forgotten how lovely his eyes were when they held that strange light.  

"Hello."  

He let the hand that cupped her rear slip down to her waist.

"How did you sleep?"  She put her hands on his belly.  One of the evening's best discoveries, she sighed silently, kneading him with a light touch.  

"Very well," he replied, laughing ruefully as he tried to swat her hand away.  He couldn't quite understand the fascination his midsection held for her, but the thought buoyed him more than he cared to admit.   Maybe he could put off that diet for a while.  "And you?"

"Desert air seems to agree with me."

"You weren't too cold?"

"Nope," she shook her head.  "I told you we had everything we needed here."

So she had.  

"It's a good object lesson for you, actually."  Her tone was thoughtful as she looked over his shoulder, deep in thought.  Her eyes drifted back down after a moment, glimmering with mischief.  "The girlfriend's always right."

"Interesting premise."  He rocked her gently back and forth by the waist.   "But who says you're my girlfriend?"

Small fists are sometimes the most potent.

"Let me finish!"  He protested, rubbing his stomach to remove her sting.  "What I was going to say is that  'girlfriend' seems…inadequate for you."  He watched her face soften, and accepted her caress as an apology. 

"But 'wench' sounds about right." 

This provoked not only the small fist, but a surprisingly agile judo move as well, which quickly pinned him underneath her.

Now this I could get used to, he noted appreciatively.

"What was that? Huh? Huh?"  

He couldn't stop laughing.  "Noth…nothing…"

"You know, I was going make your morning before we left, but now you'll have to suffer 'til we get back to the city."  She brushed herself against him.  "And that's…hmmm… a good forty minutes away?"  

"Ah...yes, sadly…"

She released him as quickly as she had taken him prisoner and crawled away, rifling through the tangle of blankets for her clothing.  Unfortunately, the punishment she had just devised was somewhat undermined by the wonderfully clear view of her privates that her vigorous searching provided.  Grissom's face spread into a grin as he slipped his hands behind his head and took in the sights.  Sara by moonlight was ethereal; Sara by daylight was…remarkable.  _Naked as the day she was born_.  He offered up a happy sigh. 

"Stop ogling me and get dressed," she growled, sensing his rapt gaze.   She strove to look stern as she turned to glare at him, but the wolfish toothsomeness undid her.

He made no effort to catch his shirt before it landed unceremoniously on his face.

"Good ass.  I mean, arm."

Her laughter came in a sparkling burst.  "Just…get a move on, you freak."

*********

They said little during the drive back.  Sara had grown sleepy, and she faded in and out as her head lolled against the seat.  She would have turned on her side and leaned against the door to make herself more comfortable, but every time she began to curl her body away, the grip that Grissom had on her hand tightened.  When she questioned him drowsily about the wisdom of one handed driving, he muttered something about backseat drivers getting left by the side of the road.   She vaguely remembered making a semi-snappy comeback, as well as some other bits of random conversation, but in the end, the sleepiness overcame her and she drifted off.

"Sara."

She felt someone shaking her.  

"Huh?  What is it?"

"Time to go."

"Oh…we're there already?" She yawned delicately.  "Good.  You better have some of your squirrel food ready quick, I'm starving."

She rolled her head towards the driver's seat to smile at him.  Why did this street look so familiar?  She blinked.  They were parked outside of her building.  

"I'm dropping you off, okay?"

She felt her stomach lurch forward.  _He wouldn't.  After…_

"You're dropping…aren't we…?"

"No."

She felt sick.

"You can't…you can't…do that."

He frowned.

"Of course I can."

_Oh God._

"It's only a couple blocks away."

She stared at him for so long that he touched her face in concern.  "I told you, I don't have much at home right now, so I'm going to the Barkley's near here to pick up some things."  He looked puzzled.  "Is that a problem?"

More staring.  

"That'll give you at least ten minutes, Sara.  How much more time do you need?"

"Time?"  She shook her head to clear it.

"To pack a bag."

That was more like it.  She hoped.  She ran her tongue across her lips.

"So…I'm going to pack a bag and…you're going to pick up some groceries…and then we're going to…"

He watched her try to sort it out and slowed his voice to a drone.  "Go to my place.  Are you okay?"

The teasing only heightened her color.  "Yeah, I'm okay.  I'm just…"

"Deprived," he finished for her.  He shrugged.  "You should have just made my morning."

"Bite me."

That damn wolf grin was going to be her downfall.  

*******

Somehow, it seemed different than she remembered.  _What was it?_  The couch was new—comfortable, bookish brown leather instead of stiff olive green, but that she knew about already.  She had teased him so brutally about the green one during one of their talks that he finally admitted to having had it replaced months before.  Not in response to vicious cracks from the team after they were forced to sit on the monstrosity during the strangler case, of course.  It had simply been "time for a change."   She laughed, remembering his high-minded tone as he told the tale, and continued to scan the room.   The butterfly arrangement was unchanged, and there were still blinds instead of curtains hanging in front of his windows.  So what was it that she wasn't seeing?  Grissom brushed past her as she pondered the question, one hand snaking out to capture her hip for a moment, while the other lightly swung the small canvas bag that held her things.  

"I'm putting this in the bedroom, all right?"

She gave an absent-minded nod in his direction.  "Yeah, sure."

He stopped in mid-stride.  "Driving you crazy, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You can't figure out what's different in here since last year," he shrugged, smiling.

"I'll figure it out." 

His reply, one skeptically inclined eyebrow, only goaded her on.

As he walked towards the bedroom with a satisfied smile, she began to inspect the space for clues.  Bookshelf…same location, same organization by subject…same earth toned area rug, same flat screen TV.  She turned to the kitchen.  No redecorating here, same gray cabinets and kitchen island with the gas range set into its work surface and the oven built in underneath, instead a standard stove unit set against a wall.    Same little nook off at an angle to the island, with more butterflies and a corkboard covered with clippings—old news articles, a few vintage postcard photos, and pages from magazines--some scientific, some literary, some humorous.   A black wire wine rack, each opening filled with a bottle of colorful liquid, and next to that, some strange metal contraption made of concentric circles that revolved around a small solid object in the center.  It could have been anything from an antique representation of the solar system to a cleverly nostalgic piece of modern art, she supposed.  She lingered over it, admiring its beautifully clean lines with her fingertips.  Something to follow up on later.  

It occurred to her that he was taking an awfully long time to deposit a single bag in his bedroom, but she took advantage of his slowness and made her way back to the living room.   No need for him to know that it was taking _her_ this long to figure out his little secret.   Was the lamp on the side table different?  Maybe it had been shorter before, with a fatter base.  Sara gnawed at her lower lip.  Maybe.  She refocused her eyes a bit before she saw it--the funky hand sculpture.  The one that looked like an early robotic appendage made of a series of hollow metal pieces connected by ball bearing joints, which could be actually be manipulated like a real hand. The whole thing was attached to a thin metal "wrist" and affixed to a stainless steel base.   Although it had been so many months ago, she would have sworn that the last time she was here the fingers were arranged differently.  Back then the index finger had been crooked forward like a witch's claw, ready to dispense some toil and trouble.  She had forced herself not to laugh when she noticed it at the time; the occasion that had brought them to Grissom's house was not one that lent itself to humor.  But she had thought about that finger often enough afterwards, wondering if he had intended it as a play on Shakespeare's wicked witches; it was her best guess after she noticed the copy of _Macbeth_ lying on his coffee table.  She had never quite found a way to bring it up with him, though.  It would have seemed presumptuous.  Her lips moved in happy lines; now, nothing was out of her reach.  

She caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye.   In a few steps, he was standing behind her.  

"So, was it elementary, Watson?"

Her expression went from sweet to smug.  "Very, Holmes."  She looked back at him over her shoulder.  "I give you Exhibit A, the hand.  You used to have the index finger hooked over like a witch's claw, but now…it's the third finger, which may or may not be the ring finger--since I can't tell if this is a right or left hand—that is extended.  The other digits are positioned straight up towards the ceiling, but that third finger is not."

He laid a hand on her shoulder.  "I'm amazed that you remembered the Macbeth finger at all.  I do play with the hand a bit, and rearrange the finger positions from time to time."

She grinned.  "I knew it."

"Good work.  Glad to see that mental fog lift, finally. " He squeezed her shoulder lightly.  "Just think how much faster you would have grasped the concept of packing a bag while I went for groceries had you been this sharp a little while ago."

"You're a real riot, you know that?"

"That's me."

She turned and slid her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"So when are you feeding me, anyway?" 

He appeared to ponder the question. 

"As soon as you…take a shower?"

She was a light girl, but rather less so when her entire weight came down on his toes.

"You know, if I'd known this is what doing it in your car would get me, I wouldn't have bothered."

The pain was noteworthy, but he managed to wince and speak at the same time.  "Hey, I like the smell of musk as much as the next guy, but…."

"Oh, it'll be the next guy pretty damn quick, if you keep this up," she said grimly.   "What do you think you smell like? 

"I smell like a man."  

_And?_ She asked with her eyes.  He shrugged.  

"You…just smell."   

Was it possible that she had willed herself to put on another five pounds as he spoke, just to spite him?  _Ouch_.  He finally lifted her off of him, while laughing at her cross look.   

"Never has one woman resisted soap and water so much," he sighed, shaking his head.  "Just go.  By the time you come out, breakfast will be ready."

*********

Still feeling vaguely mortified by Grissom's insistence on the shower, Sara walked into the bedroom with a preoccupied air.   _Do I really smell_?  She sent her nose into her armpit to take a surreptitious whiff of herself.  _I don't smell--what is he talking about?_  _I can't believe him_… Her griping was interrupted by the glimpse of something on his bed.  Something was piled on top of the comforter, several things, actually.  Soft towels and washcloths, an extra thick white bathrobe that had to be his, since she had neglected to pack her own, and—her face broke out in a silly smile--her underwear neatly folded on top.  In fact, everything that she had brought with her in the little bag had been removed and carefully laid out, either on his dresser, or on his bed.  He had touched it all.  Everything was in its place, in his place, which was the whole idea, she was sure.  He was, after all, a deliberate man.   As she picked up what she needed and made her way to the bathroom, she was already singing softly.  

As she stepped out of the shower a few minutes later still in a happy daze, Sara stopped to ponder the simpler signs of good things to come, one of which lay at her feet.  Bath mats were serious business to her; nothing could ruin a good shower faster than stepping onto some nasty synthetic fiber that couldn't absorb real moisture.  Grissom had chosen wisely; the oval of tightly looped cotton underneath her feet was perfect.   She took her time rubbing the soles of her feet into the material and digging her long toes into its thick pile, just for the pleasurable friction of it.  When her feet were satisfied, she moved on to dry the rest of her lean frame.  The underwear was considered, but put aside for the time being.  She chose instead to toss her head and sweep her hair into a towel that she twisted in place.  Finally, after the careful application of her usual lotion—her skin's delicacy made it vulnerable to dryness—she slid her arms into his robe and tied it comfortably around her waist.  It was a little big--well, very big, she noted with a laugh--but the length was just right.  As right as the smell of the man who usually wore it, a scent that would now mingle with hers in some unknown alchemy.  Her fingers plucked at the robe's notched collar; she rubbed it against her cheek.   When she looked up and saw her reflection in the large mirror above the sink, the only thing she noticed was her smile. 

She strolled back into the bedroom in leisurely fashion, her hands above her head, patting her hair dry.   Breakfast had to be ready; the odors wafting from the kitchen were making her mouth water.   She had almost made it past the doorway when she nearly ran into him.

"Careful, careful, " he said in warning. 

He was holding a serving tray covered in plates of various sizes and tall, flute-like glasses filled with some ruby colored liquid.  He had come up with a little bit of everything…a massive heap of eggs scrambled with all sorts of savory things--mushrooms, tomatoes, bell peppers…thick slices of buttered toast, wedges of cheese, grapes and cantaloupe and honeydew and…it was nothing less than a feast. 

"All this for me?"  She clapped her hands together and rose up onto her toes.  "And what's that red stuff?  You wouldn't be trying to get me drunk at this hour in the morning, would you?"

"Maybe, maybe not.  Either way, the only way you'll find out is if you go back in there and get in bed."

"Get in bed?" She took a quick look behind her.  "Don't you want to eat in the kitch—"

"No, I don't.  Now step back…"  He forced her to retrace her steps, nudging her lightly with the tray whenever she protested.  She turned out to be pretty adept at walking backwards without stumbling; he would have gone down after the first few steps.  Still, he teased her about her form as she felt her way back to the bed, deducting points every time glanced back to orient herself.   She would have sought revenge, but he had a firm grip on her food and the smell was very distracting.

After many steps, she felt the edge of the mattress behind her calves and hopped onto the bed.  After crawling back to the headboard, she quickly settled one of his pillows behind her back and shot him a triumphant look.

"Feed me, Seymour."

"Demanding plant…"

He made himself comfortable beside her, and placed the tray over her lap.  Once he was sure that it was securely in place, the first thing he did was reach up to release her hair.  It fell down in a cascade of damp strands that he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger for a moment before he spoke.

"Breakfast is served."

She registered her appreciation against his cheek.

After raving to him about his culinary talents as she began to tuck into the meal, she reached for one of the glasses.  Its rim was nearly at her lips before the possibility sent her senses on alert.  It was a little _too_ red.   

"Um…this wouldn't include some outdated blood product from the back of your fridge, would it?"  She asked, suddenly worried.

"Sara, really, " he exclaimed.  "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, Grissom.  Maybe it's some test you give to all the women who end up in your bed."  Her eyes were wary.  "Identify the mystery substance and get invited back for more of Grissom's delights!"

She could feel his chest shaking against her arm as he laughed.   

"You may have something there."    

She looked up at him and then away.

"And to answer your question…there haven't been all that many," he noted, keeping his eyes trained on her face until she looked back at him in protest.  

"I didn't ask you that."

His grin came slowly and took years off his face.   

"Yeah, you did."  

"Whatever."  She hurried to change the subject.

"So then what is this?" She motioned with the hand holding the glass.

"Cranberry juice and champagne."

She took a sip.  

"That is…excellent.  I don't think I've had it before."

"Good."

He picked up the second fork and began to eat with her, talking between mouthfuls, leaning against her shoulder.   He watched her gesture with her hands as she ate, punctuating her thoughts with whirls of her wrists and waves of her hands.  She would be a natural at sign language, if it came to that.   He pressed his mouth into her shoulder, trying to feel her warmth through the robe.   The movement, unexpected, managed to distract her enough from the smooth passage of a forkful of egg into her mouth that some of the yellow fluff tumbled onto her lips.   He heard her laugh, and then he saw her hand extend itself towards her napkin as if in slow motion.   He stared at that hand, slim and beautiful, for a long moment.   Without questioning what it meant, he reached down to take hold of his own napkin and roll it around his finger.   The skin on the back of his neck pricked lightly as he raised his hand to her face and touched the cloth to her lips.  He followed the sequence almost exactly, moving at the same pace from corner to corner, lingering again in the center where she was softest.   And this time when she raised her hand to lay it against his, he let her.  He watched her slim fingers slide themselves amidst his own, and take hold.

After several seconds had passed, she urged his hand down from her lips and turned to face him.

"What was that?" She smiled, curious.

He shook his head and kissed the corner of her mouth.

 "A dream."

(Fin)


End file.
